A Dish Best Served Cold: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (Italian Kitchen Mystery, An)

by Rosie Genova

  But what if something threatened to jeopardize that future? Something that Stinky Pete knew or saw? I immediately got busy searching Jason Connors + Oceanside Park. He seemed to have a lower social media profile than most kids his age; there was no Facebook or Twitter account. I went back to the Chronicle’s archives and searched his name, coming up with an article about his robotics team. I scanned it quickly, skipping over the scientific details. Several members of the team were quoted, as were their parents. And there it was, in the last line of the piece. A quote from Jason’s mother expressing her pride in her son and her wish for his bright future. Her name leaped from the screen; without thinking, I shut down the computer and mechanically packed up my things. I had a visit to make. Before I could leave, however, a final text from Sofia appeared on my screen:

  He’s got a lot to lose, doesn’t he???

  He sure does, I thought. But enough to kill for? There was only one way to find out.

  * * *

  It wasn’t long before I was heading to a small garden apartment complex just outside Oceanside Park. Judging from the lights on in a few windows, this building and its twin next door had power. I found the apartment number I was looking for and climbed the crumbling brick steps Jason Connors had stood on just an hour before. I rang the buzzer; when nobody came I knocked and continued knocking until the harried and furious lady of the house finally answered the door.

  “Hello, Florence,” I said cheerfully. “I was hoping to have a chat with you and your son.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, her voice on edge. She stood blocking the opening of the door. “I live alone.”

  “Give it up, Ma,” said a male voice from behind her. “She knows. Just let her in.”

  “I don’t work for you anymore,” she said. “And I don’t need you harassing me.”

  “I’m not trying to harass you, but I think I have a right to know why you lied to me and my family.” I deliberately raised my voice. “Why did you hide the fact that you and Jason are mother and son?”

  Florence stuck her face close to mine, close enough for me to see her smeared mascara and smell her cigarette breath. “I don’t have to answer your damn questions.”

  “You could always let me in. Unless you want the neighbors to hear all about what a fraud you are.”

  “Will you let her in, for Chrissakes?” Jason roared, and jerked the front door open, nearly knocking his mother over in the process. Florence turned without a word and I followed her inside.

  I stepped into a small living room, most of which was taken up by a long computer table. On it was an expensive-looking desktop computer, two laptops, and what appeared to be a small robotic car. “You’re quite the whiz, aren’t you, Jason?” I pointed to the cluttered table. He merely grunted, cleared some newspapers from the couch, and sat looking at me expectantly while Florence hovered at his side. As I looked from one to the other, I searched for a resemblance that wasn’t there, part of the reason they’d gotten away with their masquerade.

  “I don’t get it,” I said. “Why the whole act about hating Jason? What was the big deal about letting us know that he’s your son?”

  Her voice was petulant. “We didn’t think you’d hire us both. Some places have policies against it. We needed the work.”

  “So you never thought of just asking my father or grandmother?”

  She let out a snort. “That crazy old hag. She never woulda let us work together.”

  While I wasn’t above calling my grandmother a variety of names—privately, of course—it was quite another thing to hear someone else do it. My Italian blood was rising, and I answered her through my teeth. “In the first place, don’t ever speak about my grandmother that way again. In the second, if you didn’t ask, how would you even know what our policies are? But I think you had a different reason for hiding his identity.”

  Jason looked up at me through a lank strand of dark hair and frowned. “What are you even talking about?” His voice had that eye-rolling tone that teenagers often take with adults, and my temper flared again. Too angry to worry whether these two might be dangerous, I plowed on.

  “I’m talking about Pete Petrocelli, Jason. I’m talking about you and your mother taking a job at the Casa Lido because you knew he hung around the restaurant.” I paused and looked from mother to son, both of whom were wearing frozen expressions. “I’m talking about opportunity. You’re a very smart boy—do I really have to spell it out for you?”

  He jumped to his feet, his face dark with anger. “Get out of here, you b—”

  Florence grabbed his arm. “Sit down, Jason. And shut up. I wanna hear what else she has to say.” She glared at me. “I’m not as smart as my son, so maybe you should spell it out for me, then.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I think one or both of you gave Pete wine the night he died. His blood alcohol was dangerously high.”

  “He was an old drunk,” Florence snapped. “And he probably fell and hit his head or something.” She frowned at me. “What do you care, anyway? What’s he to you?”

  “I care about the restaurant. And as you so sweetly reminded me, he died after leaving the Casa Lido. I have a stake in knowing what happened to him.”

  Florence plopped down on the couch next to her son and crossed her arms. “We can’t help ya with that. So you can go now.” Her eyes darted to Jason, who ignored her. He was busy staring at his computer table, clearly itching to get back to it.

  “I’ll go after I get some answers.” I looked at Jason, who stared back at me with a bored expression. “By the way, congratulations. MIT on a full scholarship. Well done. Guess you won’t be attending county after all.”

  “It’s none of your business where I go to school.”

  “Maybe not. But what happens at the restaurant is my business. Which of you gave Pete that wine?”

  Jason shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Florence, who remained silent, fidgeted on the couch. She eyed an open cigarette pack on a table next to her but didn’t take one. I wasn’t getting very far with these two, so I took a chance and went with a lie. “By the way, the police know Pete was a petty blackmailer. Did he have something on one of you?”

  Florence’s eyes widened and she stood up. “I gave him the wine. Not Jason. It was me.”

  “She’s lying,” Jason said. “I was the one who gave him the wine. But it was just to get rid of him, that’s all. He stunk and I didn’t want him around. Last time I checked, it’s not a crime to give an old drunk a bottle of wine.”

  “It might be if he dies as a result. So which of you was it?” I asked.

  “Me,” they said in unison. Mother and son glared at each other and I sighed.

  “Look,” I said, “I’m not trying to make trouble for either of you. But that empty wine bottle in the alley could be damning for the restaurant.” I paused. “Unless of course your prints were lifted from it.”

  Florence swallowed audibly, her expression terrified, and I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. She was clearly protecting her son, but from what? I tried another tack. “You must be proud of him, Florence. He’s really talented. Most kids would . . . give anything to get into a school like MIT.” I’d nearly said most kids would kill to get into that school.

  “You’re damn right,” she said, her bottom lip trembling. “And I’m not gonna let anything get in the way of that. Jason was not involved with—”

  “Shut up, Ma!” her son screamed. “What the eff is wrong with you?”

  She grabbed his arm. “Don’t talk like that, Jason. Please, honey. It’s gonna be fine, really.” She turned to me, her face a deep red. “You get the hell outta my house now. You stay away from us, do you hear me?”

  “I don’t think you meant any harm, Florence,” I said. “You just want the best for your son, right?”
/>   “Get out!” she screamed. “Get out before I kick your skinny ass!”

  I held up both hands. “Okay, I’m leaving.” I backed out of the room, unwilling to turn my back on either of them. I hurried down the front steps, but doubled back along the side of the building and stood under an open window where I could hear snatches of conversation. Florence mentioned that they were packed and then I heard something about them leaving tonight. To bring Jason to school, of course. His voice was a deep rumble, but he seemed to be disagreeing with her. Then Florence’s voice rang out clearly:

  “. . . guy is gone. You don’t have anything to worry about.”

  After that, they moved to another room, and I walked back to my car. Was Stinky Pete “the guy” Florence meant? What did she mean by Jason was not involved? Jason was not involved in Pete’s death? Or in something Pete saw and was holding over both their heads?

  Chapter Nineteen

  As I headed home, I thought about what I’d learned. The big reveal, of course, was that Florence and Jason were mother and son. A mother and son who were clearly protecting each other when it came to the question of who gave Pete the wine. Then there was the mysterious reference to a guy being gone. It seemed natural to assume she meant Pete, but it still didn’t give me much to go on.

  By now Sofia would be at the studio, so I was on my own for a while. Back at my cottage, I sat at my desk upstairs, hesitant to use up the two hours of power I had on my computer. As I looked out at the beach from my tiny bedroom window, I mulled over what we’d found out so far. A dead man with ties to my own family’s past as well as to the Barones. A likely blackmailer who might have had a hold on any number of guests at the Casa Lido party, particularly Barone, Iris, Jason, and Florence. Iris in particular, as she was seen talking to Pete. Where did Alyssa fit in? And who was the tattooed man? Odds were that the man Sofia had seen her kissing was the same guy who’d worked the party. It was time to put in a call to my mom.

  “Are you guys keeping busy with the restaurant closed?” I asked her.

  “Well,” she answered, “your grandmother is cooking up a storm in preparation for reopening. Your father is busy making wine. And I’m spending time in the garden, harvesting the last of the herbs and tomatoes.” She sighed. “And trying hard to forget that tomorrow is the official start of Labor Day weekend.”

  “The power will be back on in time, Mom. Don’t worry.”

  “Right. Might as well tell me not to breathe.”

  “Well, maybe I can at least distract you. I have a couple of questions about the night of the party.”

  “This is about Pete’s death, isn’t it?” she asked, lowering her voice. “What do you need to know?”

  “Who were the extra servers for the party? Did you interview them or did Nonna?”

  “I interviewed them. There were six. Three of them were Nando’s cousins from Asbury Park—three brothers. We’ve used them before.”

  Despite what Sofia had said about everyone being a suspect, Nando’s cousins were from out of town. It seemed likely that if Pete knew something about someone, it would be a person he’d seen around Oceanside. So we could probably rule out the Ortiz relatives.

  “What about the other three guys, Mom? Were any of them from town?”

  “In fact, they weren’t, but again, we’d used them before.”

  “Did any of them have tattoos on their arms?”

  My mother sounded puzzled. “Tattoos? No.”

  “Are you sure? Because there was a guy in black pants and a black shirt helping stack tables when the storm hit; he had tattoos on both arms. Images of plants and animals. This doesn’t ring a bell?”

  “Honey, I think I’d remember somebody with animals tattooed on his arms. And I can tell you unequivocally that we did not hire anyone fitting that description. Could he have been a guest who just pitched in to help?”

  “Maybe.” My mind turned over the possibilities. A helpful guest wearing the uniform of a server who just happened to be Alyssa’s boyfriend? Had she allowed him to slip in to make some extra money from tips? And then I remembered: She had asked me about splitting tips that night.

  “Victoria? Are you there, honey?”

  “I’m here, Mom. Sorry. Listen, could I have the names of the extra hires?” I probably shouldn’t leave any stone unturned, but I doubted any one of these guys was a murderer. After taking down the info and promising my mother I’d keep her posted, I realized our head waitress might also know something about the extra servers that evening. I shot my friend Lori a text:

  Hey, girlfriend, how many extra guys were helping to serve and clear last Friday night?

  In less than a minute, she got back to me:

  Seven. Does Nonna have you doing payroll now?

  So Lori’s count was seven. But my mom had only interviewed six. I absentmindedly sent her back a smiley face, and thought again about the people at the party, particularly the one who seemed to have no good reason for being there: The Guy with the Animal Tattoos.

  * * *

  “I agree,” Sofia was saying, “that we can probably rule out the Ortiz cousins.” We were back in Sofia’s office, red folder at the ready, the desktop computer already powering on.

  “But not our parish priest? Or the town librarian?”

  “Not just yet. And not Miss Iris, either, now that we know she had contact with Pete that night.” She made herself comfortable in her desk chair and reached into a bag of trail mix on her desk. “But Tattooed Guy—we’ll call him TG for short—interests me. We’ve got him on the scene and we’ve got him with a connection to a Casa Lido employee. Maybe him and that Elle Woods wannabe are in it together.”

  “Maybe, but my gut tells me he was using her to get access to the restaurant.”

  “In the hopes he could get access to Pete.”

  “Exactly. It was pretty well known around town that Pete hung around the Casa Lido.” I stopped to consider an unpleasant thought. “You know what, Sofe? It kind of freaks me out that our party provided an opportunity for someone.”

  She shrugged. “If somebody wanted him out of the way, Vic, they would’ve found a way to do it. If we only knew who Pete was blackmailing,” she said, her nails tapping the computer keys.

  “We don’t even know for sure he was a blackmailer or that he was even murdered,” I said. “Everything we’re coming up with is based on circumstantial evidence—Pete’s boasts, an old bankbook, and an empty bottle of wine. Not much to build a case on.” I helped myself to a few almonds from Sofia’s bag.

  Sofia poked her head around her screen to look at me. “You’re forgetting something there, SIL. Our instincts. Both of us sense that something is off here.”

  “But the police don’t. And we haven’t had any visits from County Prosecutor Sutton.” Twice recently I’d run afoul of Regina Sutton, a woman nearly as formidable as my grandmother. After the discovery of the wine bottle, I’d half expected her to summon me to her office for questioning, but thus far I’d heard nothing. “We need to ask Danny if there’s been an official cause of death yet,” I said. “And when they plan to release the body.”

  “I’ve been asking,” she said, “but he hasn’t been answering. I’ll keep working on it, but I want to go back to the conversation you heard outside Florence’s window. Tell me again what you heard.”

  “Well, there was some garbled talk, a lot of yelling, and then Florence’s voice came through pretty clearly. She said something like ‘The guy’s gone. You don’t have anything to worry about.’ I assumed the guy was Pete. What do you think?”

  “Well, that’s the obvious choice,” Sofia said. “And I’ll definitely make a note of it. But I don’t think we should jump to any conclusions.”

  “You’re sounding like me,” I said. “But you didn’t see their reactions when I mentioned Pete’s name and asked about the wine bottle.” />
  Sofia nodded. “No doubt they’re protecting each other. Tell me again how they acted when you accused them of giving Pete the wine.”

  “She was terrified. But Jason, not so much. He just seemed impatient and angry. You know, I don’t know what to make of that kid.”

  “He seems hard to read,” Sofia said. “You’d think he’d be happier, considering he’s got an opportunity most kids would kill for.”

  “Funny, I almost slipped and used those exact words when I was talking to him. The question is: Did he kill for it?” I paused, straining to remember the conversation I’d had with Florence and Jason. “You know, Sofe,” I said slowly, “as a mother—and probably a single mother, as far as I could tell—Florence would be as heavily invested in her son’s future as he is. She actually said something to the effect of ‘I won’t let anybody stand in his way.’ Then she said ‘Jason was not involved.’ With what? I wonder.”

  “Pete’s death,” Sofia said promptly. “Or something Pete saw.”

  “Exactly.” I thought for a moment. “Florence said the guy was ‘gone.’ Gone can mean a lot of things.”

  “Right. It could mean gone like Pete is gone. As in dead,” Sofia explained unnecessarily.

  “Yeah, I get that. But it could also mean gone as in ‘has left.’ What if they weren’t talking about Pete, but about somebody who’s alive and well?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Think about it. It’s almost Labor Day. Who leaves here around the first week in September?”

  “Summer people,” she answered promptly. “And college kids like Miss Alyssa.”

  “Absolutely,” I said, nodding. “If the guy isn’t Pete, he could be any number of people. That’s the problem. Without resorting to the needle-in-a-haystack cliché—”

  “God forbid the famous writer should lower herself to such depths,” Sofia interrupted. “But I will: You think we don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of finding the person Florence was talking about.”

  “And you do?” I shook my head and groaned. “It’s another dead end.”