Death of an Italian Chef

by Lee Hollis

  Randy then went on to explain that he headed around the kitchen island in time to see a tail disappear between the refrigerator and the counter, and that’s when he went into a full-blown panic. He grabbed his phone and ran to the bathroom off the pantry and locked himself inside. He stuffed towels under the door for added protection, then called Sergio to tell him he needed to come home immediately to get rid of a gargantuan-sized rodent that had invaded their home.

  When it comes to household pests, it’s safe to say my brother Randy will never be cast as the lead in a remake of Braveheart.

  Sergio was having an unusually busy day at the police station, and could not come home to deal with this particular crisis, and so he told Randy he would just have to take care of the problem himself. Now to Sergio, who grew up on a farm in Brazil, this meant that Randy should place a simple trap down and catch the mouse, but in Randy’s mind, this was far too big for one person to handle. He needed to call in reinforcements and that meant the best exterminator in town, Mr. Peabody, whose slogan was, “No More Mr. Mice Guy.”

  Mr. Peabody proved extremely helpful, and after a thorough search of the entire house, summed up the good news. In the whole three-story house, there was only one entry point for a rodent, and that was under the kitchen sink where a board had come loose. So Mr. Peabody set his cheese-baited trap, using some delicious Gouda Randy was happy to provide, and told Randy he would be back in twenty-four hours, once the unwanted guest was caught, to dispose of it and seal up the point of entry.

  Randy asked how he would know if and when the creature was caught. Mr. Peabody gently explained, “If you hear a loud snap underneath the sink, then you will know your worries are over!”

  This did not calm Randy’s nerves, it just freaked him out even more, to the point where he thought moving to a bed-and-breakfast for a few days might be a good idea. But ultimately he decided it was just one mouse (yes, by now the large, furry creature had been downgraded to a tiny mouse), so he could tough it out, at least until Sergio got home.

  The next day, Mr. Peabody returned on schedule, but when he opened the cupboard underneath the sink, he shook his head in surprise and pulled out the empty trap. Apparently, the mouse managed to eat all the cheese without setting off the trap. Mr. Peabody piled on more Gouda this time on two separate traps, hoping this would finally do the trick, and told Randy to give it a couple more days.

  Which brings us to the frantic phone call where this story started.

  After Mr. Peabody left, all that talk of cheese had given Randy a craving. He figured a big Gouda mac-and-cheese casserole would relax him and do wonders for his frayed nerves. It would also go a long way toward patching up things between him and Sergio. Apparently, Sergio blew a gasket when he found out Randy hired Mr. Peabody, whose hourly rate was fifty dollars, rather than just set a two-dollar mousetrap! But he adored Randy’s Gouda mac-and-cheese, so it was the perfect peace offering.

  Randy began gathering his necessary ingredients, first shredding the cheese at the counter. He turned around just for a second to grab a bowl from a cabinet, and when he turned back, right there on the kitchen counter, not six inches away from him, was the unwanted guest, nibbling on a piece of Gouda cheese (Randy swore that little mouse was smirking at him too!). That’s when Randy ran upstairs and locked himself in the bedroom and called me!

  And as Randy poured us coffee, feeling better that there was safety in numbers and he wasn’t going to have to face this ordeal alone, that’s right about the time we all heard a loud snap.

  After all that excitement, a cocktail was in order. Randy loves his mojitos, but I am not really a big fan of mint. However, that completely changed when my daughter Gemma, aware of my aversion to mojitos, emailed me a recipe using basil instead, which I gave a try. I just loved it! And I am positive you will too! The bonus is I have an overabundance of basil in my fresh herb garden, so now I have something else to make besides pesto for my pasta.

  THE BASITO

  INGREDIENTS

  4 basil leaves

  2 teaspoons brown sugar

  ½ lime cut into wedges

  4 ounces white rum

  Crushed ice

  Carbonated water, tonic, or ginger ale (your

  preference)

  In a tumbler, add your basil, brown sugar, and lime wedges, and mash it all together.

  Fill the tumbler up with crushed ice, then add your rum and top off with a splash or more of ginger ale. Take a big sip and enjoy!

  THREE-CHEESE RIGATONI

  INGREDIENTS

  One 16-ounce box rigatoni

  1 tablespoon olive oil

  1 pound ground Italian sausage

  1 stick butter

  3 cloves minced garlic

  ½ cup flour

  2 teaspoons Italian seasoning

  ½ teaspoon red pepper flakes (more or less for

  preference)

  salt and pepper to taste

  3 cups milk

  1 cup shredded Gruyère cheese

  1 cup shredded fontina cheese

  1 cup shredded cheddar cheese

  In a large pot, cook your rigatoni to al dente according to the package directions.

  In a large skillet, heat the olive oil at medium-high heat. Add the sausage and cook, while breaking up with a wooden spoon, until no longer pink and cooked through.

  Remove the sausage with a slotted spoon and wipe out the pan of all the grease and return to heat.

  Add the butter to the skillet, and once melted, add the garlic, red pepper flakes, Italian seasoning, stirring until fragrant, but do not burn. Add in the flour combining all together and cook for 1 minute.

  Gradually add in the milk, whisking as you go to remove all lumps, and until smooth and creamy. Sample the sauce and add salt and pepper to taste.

  Remove sauce from heat, and add your cheeses a couple handfuls at a time, whisking until smooth.

  Add in sausage and rigatoni into the cheese sauce and mix together. Pour into a greased 13 x 9 baking dish and bake at 375 degrees for 30 to ¼0 minutes, until hot and bubbly. Remove from oven, let rest 10 minutes, then serve. Buon appetito!

  Chapter 26

  “Hayley?”

  His voice was timid, but clear, coming through the Alexa device sitting on the kitchen counter. Hayley was well familiar with this tone. She had heard it countless times before, especially growing up, when Randy wanted his mother to buy him something while they were shopping on a Saturday morning at a department store.

  “Mom?”

  It would always come from the toy aisle and involve a newly released Mattel superhero action figure or Parker Brothers board game based on a popular movie or TV show like Jurassic Park or The Simpsons. If their mother resisted, Randy would always resort to a breathless promise, “I swear I won’t ask for anything ever again! But I really, really, really want this!” Their mother would predictably relent as she fished through her wallet for some money. However, if Hayley called to her from the record section, a New Kids on the Block CD, waxing poetically about how this was supposed to be their best album ever, destined to change the face of music, her mother would snap back, “Then maybe you should get a summer job and raise the money to buy it yourself!”

  Hayley never held any ill will toward her brother for being favored and spoiled—mothers always seemed to dote on their boys more in her eyes—but that was almost thirty years ago. Randy was now a grown-up, over forty, and she knew he was reverting back to when he was that manipulative eleven-year-old at the department store, determined to walk out the door carrying a brand-new toy.

  “Hayley?”

  Same inflection, same tentativeness.

  Eleven-year-old Randy was back.

  “Yes, Randy?” Hayley sighed, standing at the stove and flipping blueberry pancakes over in the frying pan with a spatula.

  “Could you do me a huge favor?”

  I swear I won’t ask for anything ever again!

  “What is it?”

&n
bsp; “Could you iron my shirt?”

  Hayley pressed the spatula down on the sizzling pancakes frying in the pan. “Why? Do you have plans to go out somewhere today?”

  “No, I don’t think I’m well enough to leave the house yet, but I do know I will feel so much better wearing something pressed. It’s one of my weird little quirks. If I’m lying around all day in a smelly T-shirt and sweatpants, I will feel like a sick person, but if I am dressed in one of my favorite clean shirts, freshly ironed like I’m ready to go out on the town, I will feel like a totally healthy person.”

  There was an odd logic to his theory.

  But it did not make it any less annoying.

  Hayley glanced at the clock on the wall.

  Ten minutes to eight.

  She barely had time to serve him breakfast if she was going to make it to work on time.

  Randy’s voice crackled through the Alexa device. “Hayley?”

  “I’m still here,” Hayley said evenly.

  “You think I’m being ridiculous, don’t you? I shouldn’t have asked,” Randy said.

  “Hold on, I’ll be right up with your breakfast,” Hayley said, scooping up the two large blueberry pancakes out of the pan and onto a plate, and setting the plate down on a wooden tray with a small bowl of fruit, a steaming cup of coffee, glass of orange juice, a small plate of butter and a bottle of maple syrup. She picked the tray up and trudged up the stairs, wondering if she had time to text Mona and have her rush over with those sleeping pills she had threatened to grind up in Randy’s lasagna.

  It didn’t sound like such a bad idea in hindsight.

  Hayley entered Gemma’s room, where Randy was propped up against some fluffy pillows in the bed, watching Gayle King interview a senator from one of the southern states on CBS This Morning.

  She carefully set the tray down on Randy’s lap.

  “It looks delicious,” he crowed, an obvious attempt to butter her up.

  “Where’s the shirt?”

  Randy pointed to a Calvin Klein light-blue dress shirt draped over the back of a chair in front of Gemma’s old desk, where she used to do her homework in years gone by.

  As Randy eagerly poured syrup onto his pancakes, Hayley picked up the shirt and inspected the label.

  “Randy, it says right here this is a no-iron shirt. It doesn’t wrinkle,” Hayley said.

  “They always say that, but it’s just a marketing ploy,” Randy retorted. “But don’t worry about it, I know I overreached. You’re taking such good care of me; you made this delicious breakfast. I was stupid to even bring it up.”

  But I really, really, really want this!

  “I’ll iron the shirt, Randy,” Hayley said, resigned.

  Randy lit up. “Thank you so much, Hayley! I swear I won’t ask you for anything ever again!”

  Hayley smirked. “I wouldn’t say that just yet. It’s still very early in the day. Does Sergio know you’re this high-maintenance?”

  “Why do you think he’s in Brazil for three months?”

  “I’m starting to understand. Eat your breakfast,” Hayley said, scooting out of the room and down the stairs with Randy’s shirt. She set it down on the counter and got her iron and board out of the laundry closet, setting it up in the kitchen.

  Leroy, sitting next to his now-empty food bowl, blinked at Hayley with a puzzled expression on his face, as if he had never seen her do this kind of housework before. But she had. It was just rare, very rare, which might explain her dog’s confusion.

  Another glance at the wall clock.

  Two minutes to eight.

  She was definitely going to be late now, but prayed Sal would stop by the bakery on his way into the office and be his usual indecisive self, debating on whether he should splurge on the cinnamon croissant or the chocolate-covered cruller, and arrive late himself.

  Hayley flattened the shirt on the ironing board and sprayed water from a bottle to dampen it as her Sunbeam Steam Master heated up. Just as she picked up the iron and got to work on the shirt, there was a loud, frantic knocking at her front door.

  She set the iron down and went to open the door, where she found a wigged-out, frightened Connie Toscano-Mancini on her front porch. She was nervously peering over her shoulder, as if she expected someone to be following her.

  “Hayley, I just got your message this morning,” Connie explained breathlessly. “I went to bed early last night and turned my phone off. I didn’t hear your message until I left the rental this morning to go get some coffee. I raced right over here as fast as I could the moment I heard it.”

  “Hurry, come inside,” Hayley said, quickly ushering Connie inside the house and shutting the door behind her. “I was going to try you again when I got to the office. Did you notice anyone this morning following you?”

  Connie shook her head. “No. No one, but I got so panicked after hearing your message, I could barely keep my eyes focused on the road trying to get over here. I almost hit an old lady with a cane in the crosswalk, can you imagine? How do you know Big Hugo is in Bar Harbor?”

  Hayley gave her a brief explanation about Mona recognizing the man in the photo Connie had given her, how she had waited on him at Chef Romeo’s restaurant, how demanding he was, which was what made Mona remember him.

  “That sounds just like Hugo,” Connie scoffed. “He’s the size of a Mack truck, but inside he’s a spoiled-rotten child. Nobody can feed him like his saint of an Italian grandmother, who died twenty years ago! Whenever Rocco invited him over for dinner, I refused to cook for him.”

  “Connie, I think you should keep a low profile until we know it’s safe. Hugo probably doesn’t know where you’re staying, so I suggest you go back there and hide out until we can figure all this out. I’ll call regularly to check up on you and if you see anything suspicious, anything at all, do not hesitate to call the police. I don’t want you taking any chances.”

  Connie’s eyes welled up with tears. “I knew Rocco had a violent side to him, but honestly I believed that was just when it came to his work, you know, like taking out Carmine ‘Cigar’ Luciano, who was encroaching on his garbage hauling business, or a random witness who saw him plug Chico the Enforcer and might squawk to the feds—”

  “Connie, I probably should not be hearing this because I really don’t want to have to go into the witness protection program at some point. I have a nice life here in Bar Harbor I am not ready to give up.”

  Connie ignored her. “But I never thought he would ever come after me, his own wife. Not in a million years. I thought I knew him. I figured if he ever found out I strayed again with Luca, he’d try to win me back, like with a twenty-four carat diamond, or a trip to Bali. I never thought he would actually put a hit out on me!”

  Connie broke down sobbing and held out her hands for Hayley to hug her. Hayley hesitantly embraced her and patted her on the back awkwardly. Then, as gently as she could, she tried turning Connie around toward the door.

  “You really should go back to your rental, Connie, and lock all the doors and windows,” Hayley said.

  Connie fished through her purse. “Do you have any tissue? I’m fresh out.”

  “Yes,” Hayley said, rushing back to the kitchen and snatching one, two, three tissues, before deciding to just give Connie the whole box. On her way back, she was nearly knocked off her heels by a bloodcurdling scream.

  Connie was no longer by the front door.

  Hayley ran to the living room where Connie stood, looking out the window, her whole body shaking.

  “Connie, what is it?”

  “He’s found me!” Connie wailed.

  “What?” Hayley darted to the window to see a black Lincoln town car with a New York license plate parked across the street from her house.

  “That’s Hugo’s car,” Connie whispered, her eyes wide with fear, her bottom lip quivering. “I’ve seen him driving around Brooklyn in it! He’s here! He’s going to kill us both!”

  Chapter 27

  Hayley
peered out the window at the town car. There did not appear to be anyone sitting inside it. “Are you sure that car belongs to Big Hugo, Connie?”

  Connie, frightened, nodded. “Yes, I’m sure! I mean, I don’t have his license number memorized, but it’s the same make and model and it has New York plates! Whose else could it be?”

  “All right, stay put. I’m going to go outside and check it out,” Hayley said, moving toward the front door.

  Connie grabbed her by the shirtsleeve, pulling her back. “You can’t go out there! What if he’s lying in wait, ready to pounce? We should call the police!”

  Hayley had considered that, but since she had already received a stern warning from Sergeant Herrold not to abuse calling 911 after the last two times, she had to be sure there was an imminent threat before she brought in the cops. It could be just a coincidence. Maybe one of her neighbors had friends or relatives visiting from New York who just happened to drive a Lincoln town car. That seemed like a plausible theory.

  Connie plopped down on the couch, clutching her gaudy, bejeweled handbag to her chest nervously, as Hayley cautiously made her way to the front door and opened it. It was a chilly morning, even with the sun having crested over the top of Cadillac Mountain two hours ago and bringing the town of Bar Harbor into daylight.

  Hayley poked her head out, staring across the street at the Lincoln. Her initial assessment proved correct. Unless he had ducked down out of sight, or was hiding in the backseat, there was no one in the vehicle.

  Hayley made a decision.

  It was better to be absolutely sure. She dashed across the street and peered into the driver’s-side window of the Lincoln.