A Crazy Little Thing Called Death

by Nancy Martin

  “I—what?”

  I was sure I had heard wrong.

  But Vivian said, “Penny’s will originally stipulated that her clothes were to go to your grandmother. But she revised her will after your grandmother passed, and these things are to go to you now.”

  “I—I don’t know what to say.”

  “Did you come in a car? That one?” She pointed at the town car.

  “Y-yes.”

  Vivian didn’t notice my stunned reaction. “Well, there’s too much of it to fit into a vehicle like that. I can have the movers drop it off at your home later today.”

  “Vivian, I’m overwhelmed.”

  To say the least. Penny’s collection of couture was museum quality. I had as much right to it as I had to the Mona Lisa. My brain did a dizzy little dance in my head.

  “Well, don’t get too excited,” Vivian said. “I think it’s a bunch of old rags. I’ve got to get back to preparing food for my darlings now.”

  “Of course. Thank you, Vivian.”

  She turned and headed back to her mobile home, her tiny feet quick in the grass.

  Julie stayed where she was.

  “Hey,” Reed said. “I’m sorry she yelled at you.”

  Julie couldn’t speak. She turned and rushed away, heading for the trees.

  When Reed and I went back to the car to leave, I got into the front seat.

  Surprised and disgruntled to find me beside him, Reed slid behind the wheel and closed the door.

  “Before you start the car, Reed, I just want to say that I was not happy with the way you spoke to Julie. I know you were upset about your jacket, but that’s no excuse.”

  He glared out the windshield and didn’t answer.

  “But I must admit I was proud of you,” I went on, “for not taking any guff from Vivian.”

  “That old lady needs—” He stopped himself. “She’s not very nice.”

  Until this tiny incident, Vivian had seemed more than nice. She had been almost too sweet to be believed. But perhaps her focus on the animals—coupled with her blindness when it came to their genuine needs—made her incapable of seeing Julie’s predicament. The girl had clearly tried to act on Vivian’s beliefs about fur coats, but Vivian had coldly punished her for those actions.

  Reed said, “She’s got that girl bullied. What is she? Her grandmother or something?”

  “No, just—well, Julie’s mother was Vivian’s employee. I don’t know what their relationship is now.”

  “That girl needs to get away from this place.”

  I didn’t disagree with Reed. I had seen a hint that Vivian wasn’t as kind to people as she was to her animals. The old woman’s behavior puzzled me.

  Only when we reached the city did I realize I hadn’t found Potty to return his money.

  Chapter Eight

  The Caravaggio restaurant was located in a pair of row houses along an unsavory street in what real estate agents called a mixed neighborhood. There was a gas station on the corner and an Italian bakery next door with a plastic wedding cake in the window. A line of grimy row houses stretched deeper into South Philly, and in the opposite direction I could see an abandoned elementary school with padlocked gates and signs warning trespassers. Hints of gentrification included a Dumpster parked on a sidewalk in front of a house under renovation, and that universal sign of an up-and-coming neighborhood, a Starbucks.

  Caravaggio stood across the street from the coffee shop. Reed escorted me to the restaurant’s door.

  “Thanks, Reed. I’ll ride home with Michael.”

  I went into the dark vestibule and found a customer arguing with a maître d’ who stood behind the safety of a large reservations desk.

  I nearly didn’t recognize Crewe. I heard his voice as he complained to the annoyed maître d’. Crewe wore—of all things—a Kansas City baseball cap. With an earring and round tortoise-shell eyeglasses. And pleated khakis with a loose sweater that didn’t quite match and gave him the appearance of a potbelly. By not removing the baseball cap, he had undeniably marked himself as a tourist, and the maître d’ clearly didn’t like him.

  “I changed the reservation several hours ago,” I heard Crewe complain. “What’s the problem?”

  The maître d’ endeavored to hide his pained expression. “We’ll have a table open soon, sir. Meanwhile, you can wait for the rest of your party in the bar.”

  “We shouldn’t have to wait,” Crewe fumed.

  “The bar is that way, sir.”

  Crewe turned and found me standing behind him. He took my arm and steered me away from the reservations desk. In a lowered voice, he said, “Sorry about the act. I’m testing the reservations policy. I’m glad you could make it.”

  “Lexie and Michael will be here any minute,” I promised. “In fact—yes, here’s Lex now.”

  Lexie came through the door dressed in a severe black suit buttoned up tight under her chin and belted sharply at her waist. Normally, she wore her hair pulled back from her face in a ponytail, but tonight she looked as if her hair had been cranked in a vise before being pinned at the back of her head. Her expression said she was determined to have a lousy evening.

  She gave me a brisk kiss on the cheek. “Hello, sweetie. Are you feeling okay? No aftereffects?”

  “None at all. It’s Crewe who was injured. He came to my rescue, did I tell you?”

  Lexie faced Crewe as if he were a firing squad and she were a martyr prepared to die for a worthy cause. Then she got a look at his disguise. “Crewe, what in the world are you wearing?”

  Crewe didn’t melt under her glare. “Hello, Lexie. It’s part of the job, I’m afraid. Does it embarrass you?”

  “Not in the least. Why should I care? But must we look at that hat all evening?”

  “Are you planning on wearing that frown all night?”

  “I might,” Lexie said dangerously. “Do we have a table?”

  “There’s been a mix-up with the reservation,” I said. “We’re waiting.”

  “What nonsense,” she said. “I’ll take care of this.”

  Crewe caught her by the hand before she could march over to the reservations desk to make her demands. “Take it easy,” he said. “I hope Nora explained you have to play by my rules tonight. I’m on duty, which means you have to cooperate or the staff will figure out who I am. Can you do it?”

  Quickly, I said, “I think it’s going to be fun. I’ve never had dinner with a restaurant critic before.” For good measure, I pinched Lexie.

  She jumped, then glared at me. “Oh, all right. If we’re forced to wait, we might as well get a drink, at least.”

  My first impression of Caravaggio was that it had been designed by an avid Andrew Lloyd Webber fan who’d seen Phantom far too many times. Red velvet wallpaper was punctuated by flickering sconces and a lurid painting of Paris or Venice, impossible to tell which. A connoisseur of great art, Lexie gave it a glance and shuddered.

  The doorway from the vestibule to the dining room was barred by a set of iron gates, entwined with fake grapevine and firmly closed against us.

  We went into the bar, which was even darker than the vestibule. Tall tables, jammed together with black lacquered stools, were decorated with cheap votive candles that barely illuminated the gloomy faces of other patrons who had been denied tables.

  We ordered drinks—a scotch for Lexie, a martini for me, and Crewe asked for a Diet Coke, which triggered a barely suppressed sneer on the bartender’s face.

  “I’m beginning to get it,” Lexie said when our drinks arrived and the bartender compounded his bad service by dribbling mine on the table. “This could be fun after all.”

  I attempted to make small talk, but the evening had started out tense and seemed to be sliding rapidly downhill. Lexie stared stonily at the awful art on the wall, and even Crewe appeared to be losing his courage. After five agonizing minutes, he went out to check with the maître d’ again.

  “Lex, the least you could do is be polite.” />
  “I can’t help it,” she said. “I’m just not interested in being set up. With any man, which you know perfectly well.”

  “Don’t think of this as a setup. It’s just a night out with friends.”

  “I hate to wait,” she grumbled, glancing over her shoulder. “Can’t he even get us a table?”

  “Under normal circumstances, probably. But he’s doing his job. Let’s see what happens.”

  “I notice Michael hasn’t shown up yet. Clever fellow.”

  I had stopped checking my watch every few minutes, but of course I also noticed Michael was late. Very late. I started to worry that he had decided not to show up at all.

  Crewe returned. “No table yet.”

  “You’d think they’d offer us a little amuse-bouche to keep us happy,” Lexie muttered. “I’m hungry.”

  “Maybe we’ll get something,” I said. “Look, those people are being served an appetizer.”

  We looked over at a couple seated at the bar who nibbled from a small plate of tidbits that had been offered to them by an apologetic waiter.

  “Hm,” said Crewe. “Looks like Caravaggio has two levels of service. One for the regulars, and one for the tourists.”

  “Will you mention that in your review?”

  “Only if the differences become markedly obvious.”

  “So far,” Lexie said coldly, “this place deserves a scathing review.”

  Crewe sipped his Diet Coke. “I don’t do scathing, as a matter of fact. I am cognizant that a lot of restaurants are run by local guys trying to make a living, paying a mortgage. So I try to be diplomatic. If you’re a foodie who reads my reviews all the time, you know I have my codes for poor service and lousy food.”

  I quoted a recent review I had read. “‘If you like salads made with iceberg lettuce, this is the restaurant for you’?”

  “Exactly. In good conscience, I can’t put an honest restaurateur out of business.”

  We finished our drinks, and I began to wonder if we’d ever be seated. The couple at the bar was escorted into the dining room. A few other waiting patrons had given up and departed. Eventually, we were the only party left in the bar, and the maître d’ behaved as if we were invisible. He disappeared, and the bartender drifted off to sleep with his chin propped in his hand.

  Which was when the front door slammed and Michael came in. He glanced around the vestibule. I slid off my stool and went out to meet him. He had put on a pair of black trousers, a black shirt and a black leather sport coat as if he hoped to blend into the darkness of the restaurant.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said when I kissed him. “I was putting out a small fire.”

  “Oh, really?” I smiled at his joke. “Anything serious?”

  “I am serious. Your sister set the house on fire.”

  “Michael!”

  “Take it easy. We got it out. The twins even helped. They’re not bad in a crisis.”

  My heart was pounding. “What happened? Is Libby okay?”

  “She’s fine. I can’t figure how she did it. She put a stack of index cards on the stove, and they caught fire. So she blew them out and carried them out to the back porch to put in the trash later. The next thing we knew, there were flames.”

  “Oh, my God!”

  “It’s okay. There’s a little damage to the porch, but nothing that can’t be fixed.”

  “At my expense,” I said dolefully.

  “She offered to pay. Between sobs.”

  “So she’s really upset?”

  “About losing her cards, that’s all.”

  “Is she still at the house?”

  Michael’s smile was wry. “I thought it might be best if she went home to calm down. Besides, the twins have school tomorrow. So I drove them all home, then brought Rawlins back to the farm to pick up her minivan. It took longer than I thought.”

  I hugged him. “Thank you. The whole house might be destroyed if she stayed any longer. Come meet Crewe. And Lexie’s here, in a foul mood. This may be a long night.”

  I introduced Crewe and Michael, who didn’t bat an eye at the baseball cap. Crewe looked intrigued to be meeting the son of a famous mob boss.

  Lexie eyed Michael suspiciously. “Are you limping?”

  “I slipped on the stairs.” Michael accepted her kiss. “Nothing serious.”

  “Your chin still looks awful, too. Does it hurt?”

  “Not much.”

  “We’re having a lousy time,” Lexie reported. “They won’t give us a table, so I’m getting ready to go in search of a McDonald’s before I faint from hunger. Are you with me?”

  “I might have a stick of gum.” Michael patted the pockets of his coat. “If you’re desperate.”

  The maître d’ had returned to the reservations desk, and when he glanced in our direction, he dropped his fountain pen and came rushing into the bar.

  “Mr. Abruzzo! I had no idea you were waiting! Please forgive me. Have you ordered a drink? On the house, anything you want!”

  “Uh,” said Michael.

  “Please, please.” The maître d’ snapped his fingers at the sleepy bartender. “A drink! The scotch we keep especially for your father—”

  “No, thanks,” Michael said. “I don’t need a drink.”

  “What can I get you? Whatever your pleasure. Oh, you want your table, of course. Right this way, sir.”

  Crewe’s eyebrows had disappeared up into his baseball cap, and Lexie looked highly amused as we were ceremoniously ushered through the gates and into the much more elegant ambience of the dining room. No pictures of gondolas here, just subdued upholstery, beautiful lighting, plenty of flowers. The scent of well-coaxed herbs wafted in the air. A small number of tables were grouped in the main room, all occupied by well-dressed couples and foursomes of patrons who were quietly enjoying their food.

  Through another doorway lay another room, obviously reserved for uncouth tourists who were noisier, and badly dressed, and had even brought along children, who scattered the floor with crumbs. There, every table was full. As we passed the tourist room, the maître d’ held our menus aloft, perhaps hoping he could protect us from the mob.

  In the main dining room, he found us a secluded corner table where we could survey the rest of the patrons, but where our conversation would not be overheard by anyone else. Expertly, he assisted Lexie and me into our seats, then guided Crewe into the corner chair and Michael into a spot with his back to the wall and an unobstructed view of the whole room.

  “I hope this is satisfactory, sir,” he murmured to Michael as he distributed the menus. “Allow me to send a bottle of wine to apologize for your inconvenience.”

  Already, waiters had begun a silent, swooping ballet of removing and replacing glassware, delivering a basket of crusty bread and, in less than two minutes, a plate of antipasto glistening with artichokes.

  “Sorry about this,” Michael said to Crewe. “I think I just ruined your night.”

  “Not at all.” Crewe smiled generously. “The good news is that I haven’t been recognized. All they can see is you. I guess that means I can discard the disguise.”

  He removed his baseball cap at last, and the eyeglasses went, too. The earring remained, however, and gave him a rakish air. “Good thing I didn’t go to the trouble of wearing my false teeth.”

  “But Crewe,” I said, “this way you’re not going to get an average dining experience.”

  “No, but I’ll have to come back at least once more anyway, so this will be a good baseline—at least where service is concerned. It’ll be interesting to make comparisons.”

  Lexie opened her menu. “How do we proceed?”

  Crewe took over, explaining apologetically that he would order for all of us and be the first to taste every dish.

  “And it’s time for me to turn on my recorder.” He displayed a small microphone that he concealed in his sleeve. “Since I can’t take notes without being spotted, we’ll have to talk about the food. That way, you s
ee, I can record my impressions.”

  “Are we allowed to have opinions?” Lexie asked.

  “Of course.” He was in professional mode, all joking aside. “But I don’t have to agree with you.”

  We nibbled on the antipasto and studied the menu together. The flustered sommelier arrived, and in rapid Italian, he apologized profusely to Michael for keeping us waiting. He provided the wine list, made a few murmured suggestions in Michael’s ear and bowed away. Another waiter arrived with a tray of small bites sent by the chef. There were tiny rolls of succulent prosciutto, shaved truffle, a morel-scented puff pastry and an array of tiny fish delicacies.

  Then the chef himself arrived, hastily buttoned into a clean white jacket with his name embroidered on the breast. He conferred with Michael about the menu, suggesting we sample various items from the tray before making our final selections.

  “Well, well,” said Crewe when the chef bowed and went away. “So this is how the other half lives.”

  He chose our orders for us so that our selection of dishes ranged widely across the menu. The waiter appeared at exactly the right instant, and he memorized our requests—even the special preparation of the scallops Crewe requested to test the chef’s flexibility. The waiter disappeared without taking a single note.

  “That always makes me nervous,” Crewe said darkly. “I’m afraid something will be forgotten.”

  “I have confidence they’ll get it right.” Lexie gave Michael a bright smile.

  He sighed and shook his head. “They think they’re going to sleep with the fishes if they get something wrong, don’t they?”

  Crewe and Lexie rushed to assure him that the staff simply wanted to give him the pleasure of a nice evening, and together they started a lively conversation to make Michael feel at ease. I wanted to kiss them all.

  We had calamari first, and I remember a squid ink soup that Crewe crowed over. Michael found a bottle of Produttori del Barbaresco 1996 on the menu, a rare bottle at a bargain price that impressed Crewe no end. Then came a parade of dishes I didn’t think were normally served in traditionally Italian restaurants. A swordfish with tomatoes and capers, sardines with the intense flavor of wild fennel, an eggplant rollatini with crisply burnt edges to counterbalance the creamy ricotta inside. Crewe reported the scallops were so-so, but the rest of us loved them.