“Not at all,” she replied. “It was all about the suspicious death of your sous chef.”
No time like the present. “Who died around midnight. How’s your alibi, Fina?” I reached for my stash of pico de gallo chips. For this conversation, I needed serious damage control.
“I had company all night.” She sounded matter-of-fact.
“The kind of company that wasn’t asleep in the east wing?” Did that sound a little sarcastic? I munched. Checked my watch: 9:57. Three minutes until my descent into madness.
“It was the kind of company,” she drawled, “who, if he’s asleep in the east wing, you’ve got to wonder what he’s doing there in the first place. So, no, Eve.” Then she added by way of explaining the guy’s creds: “He’s both a judge and an insomniac, so he can vouch for me at the key times.”
Nice for her—nice in so many ways I decided just to let them roll on by me. She gets the judge. I get the likes of Junior Bevilacqua. Fina Parisi went on to describe how the sheriff questioned her about that hotshot Anna Tremayne, her connection to some secret cooking club, and her blog post. And by the way, could Ms. Parisi please explain what was meant by the term—here the sheriff consulted his notes—“oh murder”? Fina, figuring it was how a non-Italian heard the word omertà, obliged.
And I noted she did not suggest any historic correlation between omertà and oh murder. Instead, she explained to the sheriff that omertà added to the mystique of their two-hundred-year-old secret all-female culinary society. Members just like to believe there’s something terribly important at stake, otherwise why should they fork over—although she didn’t actually use the words “fork over”—the two-thousand-dollar initiation fee?
This little gumdrop of information was the biggest one I had snagged since putting together that Georgia and Anna were one and the same. Two-thousand-dollar initiation fee? Clearly the Belfiere B tattoo alone wasn’t enough pain. Had Maria Pia Angelotta already anted up?
“I thought you’d want to know,” said Fina, wrapping up. “Invite me for some antipasto sometime,” she said before we murmured goodbyes at each other. I hung up, and crawled out of my Volvo as though the poor car was incapable of protecting me from what was to come. I grabbed my pathetic new leather portfolio and weighed it speculatively in my hand.
Perhaps I could hedge my bets by slipping in a few flat stones? I tried swiping the air forehand and backhand with my portfolio, wondering just what kind of defensive damage I could cause. Yes. Yes. Very good. As I kicked around in the brown grass just past the curb of the parking lot, looking for some flat stones, I pondered the info Fina had given me.
So the cops knew about Georgia being Anna Tremayne, celebrity chef. And the cops also knew that Georgia/Anna was connected somehow to a very old and secret cooking society called Belfiere. And the cops had heard about Anna T.’s hysterical blog post that appeared to blow the whistle on Belfiere, laying bare a motive for murder . . . for someone. And finally, the cops knew the murdered “hotshot” Anna Tremayne had violated omertà, the code of silence that was somehow worth buying into for a mere two thousand bankable clams.
I slid ten nice, flat stones into my leather portfolio, then tried the backhand once again.
Very, very nice. On the one hand, not too heavy to slow me down. On the other hand, packs enough of a wallop to make Mitchell or Slash suddenly unsure of the difference between a roux and a rarebit. Satisfied, I stashed it in a cardboard box with the two special sauce pots I had brought from Miracolo just for today’s lesson.
Somewhat more confident now, what with my weighty class materials, I headed toward the front of the Quaker Hills Career Center, slowing only momentarily as I strode though the doors . . . which was when I remembered one of the very first things Fina had said when she called. The sheriff’s department had received a call.
An anonymous call.
Whoever had made that call knew better than to call the Quaker Hills PD. Knew that Belfiere was meeting out in the county, the jurisdiction of the sheriff’s department. Knew that Chef Fina Parisi, who lived at 7199 Gallows Hill Drive, was the host.
The significance of this insight eluded me for some time, while I hotfooted it down the brightly lighted hallway ahead of that resident dragon Courtney Harrington. The term strega, while suitable for Belladonna Russo, whose own daughter kept her out of the club that represented the highest in culinary arts (here I couldn’t help cackling), seemed somehow inadequate for that person known as Courtney Harrington. This I would have to ponder. But for now, I pretended not to hear her strident shouts of “Angelino! You! You, Evelyn Angelino!”
For some strange reason, the kitchen classroom was suddenly promoted from Tenth Circle to sanctuary. I oozed inside so seamlessly, so ectoplasmically, I found myself wondering why I didn’t look into special ops in those months while I was recovering from a leg broken in two places and wondering how I was ever going to pay the rent. I clutched my stuffed portfolio to my chest and scanned the room. Only because it didn’t know any better, the sun was shining in all over the place. Lighting up the stainless steel classroom tables, the sequins on L’Shondra’s top, and the metal studs on Mitchell’s face.
“Good morning, class,” I said, flashing around a crocodilian smile.
Frederick Faust raised a hand high. “Is it true we’re down a man?”
I blinked at him, possibly a twenty-two-year-old, with fair hair parted once and for all back in 1955, the bangs combed back over the top. He must have looked cute in lederhosen when he was three. The Faust kid was the anti-Mitchell, but I’m not sure I liked him any better. “That man would be Georgia Payne, yes.” Where’s a situation room when you need one?
Renay Bassett slung a braceleted arm over the back of her stool and favored him with a look that would braise beef without turning on the burner. “Listen, Adolf,” she said, warming up, “the next time you—”
And from there the eight of us—minus the man down—got fast-tracked to chaos, what with Renay telling Frederick just what he could do with his whisk, Corabeth belting out “Castle in a Cloud” from Les Misérables, and Slash the K drumming his little black heart out on the table with wooden spoons. A couple of punches were thrown by L’Shondra, pushed over the edge by that wise guy wannabe Mitchell, who was trash-talking behind his hands. Poor little Will Jaworski was reminding me of a big-eyed Ewok, fastening me with a look that said he still had a stockpot full of faith, both in my ability to control the classroom and in the Mets’ chances of winning the World Series that fall.
“Silence!” I bellowed. Then I shoved apart Mitchell and L’Shondra, flung apart Frederick and Renay, told Corabeth to save it for late night at Miracolo, grabbed the drumsticks out of Slash’s mitts, and pulled Will Jaworski out of the fray and up to the stovetop burners, where I used him to demonstrate how to make a simple roux. At which point the word “Suck-up!” got whispered around the sunny classroom. I glowered at them all.
While Will measured out the milk to mighty snoring sounds from Mitchell, Frederick asked again about Georgia. In as dignified a manner as possible, I explained that Georgia Payne had died suddenly at Miracolo, and I was sure we were all going to miss her very much. Just when I thought we could move on to the addition of flour to the roux, Slash piped up that Georgia had been “whacked.” Then he raised an eyebrow, no easy thing given the hardware in what I could only call his face assembly, and looked smugly around at the others.
A few of them blanched better than any broccoli I had ever known. Nobody moved. And Will’s stirring hand was poised trembling over the saucepan. “That true, Chef A.?” said L’Shondra.
I temporized. “Georgia died under . . . mysterious circumstances, yes.” I’m not sure that sounded any better than “whacked,” but it was all I had.
Despite the clamor for full disclosure, more details, and vomit-producing gore, I told them all to get busy at their stations—“except for you two
”—I pointed at Mitchell and Slash, jerking my head in the direction of the hallway. Giving each other the eye, they sauntered toward me. I stared at nothing in particular as they got their swagga on and passed through the door I held open.
As the door eased shut behind us, I took a quick look up and down the hallway—some late students loping off to Automotive Technology and Cosmetology classes, which I’m pretty sure were two separate courses—no sign of that stregissima Courtney Harrington—and subtly backed the slouching Mitchell Terranova and blinking Slash Kipperman up against the wall. How best to handle these two, short of introducing them to my lovely leather portfolio? I reminded myself that what I wanted was information.
“I spoke to Don Lolo” was my opener.
This news was met with such creepy joy that Mitchell grabbed kind of ineffectively at his crotch and Slash actually high-fived himself. Then the two of them grooved to whatever music they heard in their own heads until I held up a warning hand. “First, before Don Lolo can bring you into the organization, you must pass the truth test.”
In that moment Slash went cross-eyed and Mitchell developed a sudden underbite. Their eyes ripped around my face like they were trying to determine just how far I was pulling their skinny little legs.
I went on to explain that Don Lolo Dinardo has unimpeachable information about the death of his lady friend, Georgia Payne, so he already knows the truth. What he wants now is to see whether your story matches it exactly. At which point my two wise guy wannabes got very studious, like we were heading into Final Jeopardy! “It’s all about that red purse, boys,” I said finally, lifting a speculative eyebrow at them and crossing my arms. “You need to come clean about how you got it. And don’t spin me any more lines, because Don Lolo knows the truth.” Which was more than I could say for myself. “There will be no consequences to you, you have to understand. But only if you come clean.”
So they bought it, while visions of black limos danced in their weird little heads, and their words spilled out. And I, Evelyn Angelino, reluctant sleuth, cooking teacher to the star-crossed, hit pay dirt. The boys went on to describe how they had paid Georgia Payne a visit late that night at Miracolo. She let them in the back door, and while Mitchell distracted her, Slash pinched the red purse from the counter. Slash slipped it under his Phillies jacket. They liked her well enough—hey, she gave them some leftover biscotti—but they figured what the hell, a purse is a purse. (At this bit of insight, they spread their hands wide and I nodded like it made perfect sense.)
When I asked them who else was on hand, they looked at each other and came to the same conclusion at the same time: “Nobody.”
“Nobody.” I felt thoughtful.
Slash’s mouth twisted. “Yeah,” he said.
“Place was empty.”
Slash sheepishly admitted they scored some silverware. “Not that it was real,” he snorted. “Still, a guy’s gotta eat.”
I couldn’t make sense of any of this—how these kids knew silver from silver plate, or how utensils alone can fill a stomach—so I plowed on, trying really hard to keep my expression neutral. “Then what happened?”
They shrugged. “She told us to get lost—”
“Well,” said Slash, “ ‘Run along home’ is what she said.”
And Mitchell snorted, “Like we live in da hood.”
What was I going to do wit dese gangstas?
“And . . . ?”
“We blew the joint.”
And then they both remembered something that caused them to fall out laughing.
“Ssh, ssh, ssh.” I patted the air, worried that any sound of human joy would invoke Courtney Harrington.
Slash the K and Mitchell Terranova started pushing at each other playfully. “Yeah, she was standing in the doorway, like, you know?” said Slash, confidingly.
“Yes, I know what a doorway is.”
“Saying good night.”
“Yeah, when Dummy here—” a good shove at Mitchell, who was trying so hard to keep from blaring with laughter that bubbles appeared at the tip of his nose—“let a fork and spoon slide right through his pants—”
“—and hit the ground.”
This hilarity included some choice put-downs about which of the two of them had less in there to hold up their pants, which ended in a stalemate. “Then what?” I pressed.
“Old Georgia didn’t see a thing.”
“Just shut the door on us—”
And then, out of the mouths of troubled babes, I got a key piece of information. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a glimpse of pink heading our way that could only be the muffler shop shirt of the misnamed Courtney Harrington. As my mind flew to a satisfying image of jamming one of the stools in the kitchen classroom up against the doorknob, Slash the K clicked his tongue stud against his back molars and repeated, “Yeah, she shut the door on us.” He scratched his chin, recollecting the moment. “And locked it.”
* * *
At 12:10 I sat inert in my trusty old Volvo, my box of my leather portfolio and sauce pots on the seat next to me. Never had making a béchamel sauce, a béarnaise sauce, and a simple brown gravy been so exhausting. Practically hunched over the steering wheel, and chewing the inside of my cheeks to keep myself awake—no way I was going to nap in the parking lot at Quaker Hills Career Center, where I could wake up suddenly in a ring of fire—I drove below the speed limit into town. There I found a metered spot that still had some time on it, in front of my favorite boutique, Airplane Hangers, and jolted back my seat.
When Courtney Harrington had caught up with me (having had no success trying to turn the doorknob to the kitchen classroom, much to everyone’s stifled laughter), she had a question about office hours. As in: I was supposed to have some. So the students could meet with me outside the classroom to discuss their needs. For a strega wearing a muffler shop shirt, she seemed pretty sincere, but the notion that anything like office hours would meet any of those particular students’ needs made me erupt into hysterics.
Leaving Courtney with her mouth hanging open, I headed out the door, wiping my eyes.
With my seat back, I saw the Kale and Kayla Organics van zoom by on its way to the restaurant, where the flaky Kayla was delivering the day’s order of produce. Miracolo was reopening after the murder of Anna Tremayne, and I wondered what kind of dinner crowd we’d get that night, given the fact that it was our second murder in less than a month, even if my beef braciola was on deck as the special as a lure for the squeamish. If I could stay awake to make it.
I catnapped for what turned out to be ten minutes and pulled myself out of the car, whereupon I was cornered by Dana Cahill, who kept tucking her black bob behind her ears, while she took me on about Grief Week. No mere catnap could steel me to any of Dana’s endless requests and suggestions. “Aren’t we done with Grief Week?” I felt myself sag against the car.
“Cut short, Eve, what with sudden deaths and whatnot.” This “whatnot” she punctuated with fluttering fingers. If she were honest, she’d just come out and admit she wasn’t done making neighborhood beagles howl at her tuneful slayings of splatter platters. Then she froze her shoulders in a gesture that I think was supposed to be appealing, and bared her cosmetically whitened teeth at me in a hopeful smile: “One more night?” She nibbled a cuticle.
I said graciously, “Whatever.”
Which would land us all in the pasta fazool later, but for now, at least, she kissed me and sprang back up the block. At least I was rid of her. As I headed down the sidewalk toward Miracolo, where Kayla was double-parked outside while she unloaded the van, I thought about what I (hated to admit I) had learned at the jumpy, knobby knees of Slash the K and Mitchell Terranova. The boys had left Georgia Payne alive at the restaurant—minus a purse—also some of our place settings—where she was alone. And as they left, she locked the door.
I passed some lunch crowd tu
ristas and avoided a group of polo-shirted Jaycees who were self-importantly figuring out street decorations for the Fourth of July. They were trying to come to some agreement about just how many miles of red, white, and blue twinkle lights to string up—here they prowled around looking for outdoor outlets—when I got the full impact of what Slash had said. If Georgia/Anna had locked the back door to Miracolo when the boys left, then her murder wasn’t a stranger killing. Either she had known her killer and unlocked the door for him . . . or her. Or . . .
Whoever killed Anna Tremayne had a key.
My hand settled on the front doorknob to our beautiful family restaurant just as the implications hit me. I’d need more than a brass knob to keep me upright. How was I ever going to get through my workday with the shakes?
16
Brushing by cousin Kayla, who was dressed in her classic powder-blue shorts overalls, today with a preposterous silver bandeau top, I breathed a quick “Hi” and headed for the office at the back. She called something after me about needing to talk about potato blight—as long as whatever she had to tell me didn’t involve office hours, I was okay—and kept on unloading bins.
I closed the door to the office, pulled out my cell, and dialed the Quaker Hills PD. When they put me through to Detective Sally Fanella, who sounded like she was wrestling with a twelve-inch sub with everything on it, and the sub was winning, I asked her about the anonymous call to the sheriff’s department. “How do you know about that?” she asked with a certain amount of suspicion in her voice. Then I heard some rustling of paper napkins.
Basil Instinct Page 20