“Of the murder?”
She blew. Ten seconds of piety is just about her limit. “Of course, of the murder!” She glared at me. “What have we been talking about? My poor dead Arlen—”
“Whose real name, by the way, was Maximiliano Scotti,” I inserted.
Nonna looked as befuddled as she had at her arrest. Then she got instantly to the most essential piece of the new information. “You mean he was Italian?”
I could read the unspoken thoughts that darted vividly across her face: she always knew there was something she liked about him; her boyfriend had just been revealed to be the lost prince of an obscenely wealthy kingdom; how particularly sad the world has lost such a fine example of an Italian; she will never love again.
“Yes, Italian, Nonna,” I said. “And a financial adviser.”
We then covered, in conspiratorial whispers, many crazy-making points in the case. She had gone back to Miracolo maybe an hour after she dropped Arlen/Max off, and discovered his body. (This at least explained the loss of the silver bracelet. It also put her right on the scene during the key times.)
She couldn’t explain the change of identity problem, from Max to Arlen. Not a clue. I wasn’t totally inclined to believe her. After all, I’d believed her all those years ago when she told me my father had gone on a two-year scientific mission to the Amazon to find new edible greens; then, two years later, when he didn’t turn up, she had to produce the famous farewell note.
Okay, so about Max Scotti, great-great-nephew of a famous baritone, opera aficionado and collector, and financial adviser, okay, maybe she knew nothing.
But how could she know
nothing
about Arlen Mather, he of the bogus ties to the famous sermonizing Puritan family? From what I’d heard of the guy, Arlen didn’t seem too concerned with the state of his immortal soul.
I handed her his business card and saw a flicker of fear on her face.
“Where did you get this?”
“From Kayla.”
“Kayla?” She was incredulous. Was this man’s business card such a rarity?
It seemed to be the time to tell Maria Pia the truth about Arlen Mather and her great-niece. “Arlen dumped her for you.”
More flights of facial expressions, all unspoken: oh that dear sweet man; I have powers the likes of which you can only dream of; I have bested a
bella ragazza
forty years younger than my glorious self.
“Did you know about his interior design business?”
“Of course I knew. Why do you think I hired him?” she finished with a bold toss of her uncombed hair.
“You hired him?” This was Landon.
“You hired an interior designer?” This was me.
Sometimes the long, slow, dark road suddenly comes slamming right up to you as a shorter, faster, darker one, complete with a brick wall. My heart started pounding harder than when Ted and Sally had shown up at Miracolo with a warrant for her arrest.
What I felt then was fear. This was something else.
“Yes,” Nonna said defensively, “I hired an interior designer.”
“What for?” Landon still didn’t see it.
Maria Pia had the good sense to step back from the bars of her cell, where my hands couldn’t reach her. “You can look at me like that all you want, Eve,” she said softly, “but it doesn’t change the facts.”
“And what are those?” I said flatly.
Queen Maria Pia made an appearance. “I hired Arlen Mather to redecorate Miracolo.” It all came tumbling out. She had dropped him off that morning to look over the space with a view toward covering up those hideous old brick walls with lovely red-flocked wallpaper—here Landon gasped—and paintings of Mount Vesuvius, with maybe some little niches for reproductions of David and Cupid and Venus and Caesar, and maybe a
fontana
up front near the cash register—
I suddenly understood how my precious Caruso recording of “Your Eyes Have Told Me What I Did Not know” had wound up under the body. Arlen/Max had started to take down the shadow boxes to get a better look at the walls.
My eyes got dangerously narrow. “When were you planning on telling me?”
She gave me a sideways glance. “I was planning it as a
sorpresa
.” A surprise.
My Crap Detector was going
ding, ding, ding, ding.
“When were you planning on having the work done?”
Queen Maria Pia stood taller. Her chin lifted. “In June.”
And then I saw it all. “When I’d be in Orlando?”
She’d planned to send me to the American Culinary Federation’s annual convention just to get me out of the way so she could tart up our precious restaurant until you couldn’t tell it from any other Italian restaurant from fifty years ago. It was diabolical. It would be disastrous.
“Nonna!” said Landon with profound disappointment.
I got right up in her face. “Mather was a liar, Nonna.”
“What are you talking about?” Haughty to the max.
“He wasn’t really a member of the American Society of Interior Designers.”
A flicker on her face told me she hadn’t known. Then: “It doesn’t matter, Miss Priss. He knew what he was doing. You don’t know anything!”
She stood in her cell looking stubborn and righteous, and I considered letting Belinda DiMaio defend her after all. That was as close to a
malocchio
as I could get—and probably more effective. But I needed something
now
…
“Guess what I’m making for the dessert special this evening, Nonna?” I started to walk away, then turned and looked her straight in the eye. “Cannoli.”
To the sounds of
molto
agitation, I tugged at Landon’s sleeve and swept past the dozing desk sergeant.
*
I dropped Landon back off at his place, where he declared he needed a lot of cuddle time with his cat, the mighty Vaughn, before coming to work. Then I headed over to my tiny house, where I changed into my new red summer sheath and black sandals for my at-long-last “work date” at Miracolo with Mark Metcalf.
I couldn’t let my mind wander in the direction of my treacherous grandmother. No wonder the Ancient Roman Empire collapsed: they slathered red-flocked wallpaper on everything and thought it was
bellissimo.
And don’t even get me started on the Mount Vesusius and Lake Como schlock.
Maybe I’d call Joe, maybe not.
Maybe I’d turn in the silver bracelet, maybe not.
Maybe I’d fire Dana, maybe not.
Maybe I’d get a restraining order against Maria Pia, keeping her fifty yards away from Miracolo, maybe not.
One thing was for sure: I was making cannoli. With a vengeance.
As I swung myself back into the Volvo, I was pondering Arlen/Max’s change of identity. It’s one thing to change your career. It’s another thing to change your name. What had Maximiliano Scotti done that he wanted to change both? And why was he killed at our restaurant? What about Miracolo or Quaker Hills made the killer strike
there
? It’s not as though Quaker Hills was a hotbed of—
But wait a minute.
It
was
a hotbed of crime. There were all those thefts over the last three months. The rug shop, two antique stores. And “Arlen Mather” was an interior designer. Was there any connection between those robberies … and his murder?
It was such a delicious possibility that by the time I pulled onto Market Square, I felt like I fit the very cool red summer sheath I was wearing. Red, as we all know, is a state of mind. And in my current state of mind, the game plan was to disarm and seduce Mark Metcalf. I’d had enough of my nonna’s conniving, enough of Arlen/Max’s murder, and enough of kissless good-nights on the run.
Ah, that wonderful midday feel at Miracolo. Nothing like it. The pale light sifting through the blinds always makes me think of the word
lambent
. The light slanted and hung dancing in the air of the dining room, like even the dust was waiting for love. I confess I peeked into Miracolo’s office and eyed the saddle-brown leather couch that should have sported crime scene tape, what with the crime against sense and taste committed by Joe and Kayla. Well … not to mention me and the FedEx man.
Landon wasn’t due until 2 p.m., so there was plenty of time for some love in the afternoon with Mark. I was even feeling soft toward Frank Sinatra—maybe a little “Strangers in the Night” wouldn’t be amiss? With a quick check that the front door was unlocked, I walked back to the double doors to the kitchen, glancing at the pile of linens still flopped onto the booth. Feeling incredibly hot in my red dress that knew just where to cling without appearing needy, I entered the kitchen lost in precouch reveries. And then I got bagged.
With a swoop, one of Arne’s big white cotton delivery bags came down over my head and tightened around my knees, pulling me literally off my feet. I let out a strangled whoop, hitting out like a deranged mime. What was happening? “Cut it out! Cut it out!” I kept yelling, scratching at the stifling fabric like my stubby fingernails were going to get me out of the bag.
And then I got double-bagged. The hands were big and fast, pulling a second bag up over my kicking feet, winding the pull cord around me like a mummy. When I got lifted up, I started screaming. Before I knew what was happening, I was tumbled someplace close to the kitchen and a door was shut firmly behind me. I wasn’t hit with Arctic air, so it wasn’t the walk-in fridge. There was a scraping sound as something got jammed against the doorknob.
Then, silence.
Someone was having his way with my restaurant. True, better it than me. But still.
I struggled, feeling a whole lot like Harry Houdini trying to slip magically out of a strait-jacket. I stopped long enough to inchworm my way across the floor to see if I could figure out my space. My bagged black-sandaled feet struck something, so I experimentally kicked out hard. Metal. When my feet made out large round cylinders, I knew I’d hit upon the bottom shelf of the storeroom, where we kept megajugs of imported olive oil.
Was there anything here that could help me?
I tried to picture the space. Any kitchen utensils? Scissors? Cutlery? Even if I’d landed in a scissors factory, I didn’t see how I was even going to be able to get to my feet.
Out of frustration, I started to growl. I had cannoli to make—Maria Pia–defying cannoli. If my hands weren’t immobilized against my thighs, I’d shake my fists. With these developments, I was going to run out of time both for a frolic with Mark and a decent shot at making my dessert special. Could this day possibly get any worse?
And then I got mad.
I kicked at the seams of the bag, finally punching out a hole. It was all I could do to fold myself in half, reaching down, down, down with my grasping hands to the place where I’d torn the bag. Then I ripped with a vengeance, tearing apart the inner bag. From there it was just a matter of time before I’d torn through the outer bag and pulled apart the tied cords. When I was bag free, I inventoried myself, noting the sore left side of my body from being pulled off my feet, noting the big hanks of hair that were crisscrossed in every direction like some of the worst bad hair I’d ever seen.
Red dress: intact.
Then I started pounding with my fists on the jammed door. “Help!” Sometimes I took a turn hammering with my forearms. “Help!” Every so often I tugged like a madwoman at the doorknob. Nothing. I kept yelling for help at the top of my lungs like I was trying to get out of some circle of Hell even Dante didn’t know about.
Half an hour, a full hour, the month of June … who knows how long I was trapped there? All I could do was yell. And, I have to admit, cry a little bit.
Suddenly I heard a voice, far off.
Someone was calling my name. Then the voice got closer. “Eve?”
Joe! My heart lifted right up.
“Here!” I screamed. “In here!”
“Where are you?”
I called again, pounding with all my might on the door: “In here! I’m locked in!”
Then the chair that was jamming the doorknob was sliding away. I took a step back. My sandals were scuffed from the struggle, my hair was heading off in three different demented directions, my tearstained mascara was giving Maria Pia’s a run for the money, and one hand was gripping the opposite shoulder, which was throbbing from the fall. Just as the door swung open, I realized that one side of the hem of my dress had managed to lodge itself in my underpants.
I was, in short, a vision.
And standing there before me, was … Mark Metcalf.
13
My disappointment was unreasonable. I should have been happy to see anybody, right? But Joe made such a nice cup of tea that, while locked in the storeroom, I found myself wondering what he was like in a clinch—strictly in the sense of dicey circumstances, you understand. Still, there was that dimple, and that smile that seemed to come from someplace the sun only dreams about. Was I actually attracted to the guy?
“What’s going on?” said Mark. Apparently Real Marlboro Men get baffled by things like picking up their dates in storerooms.
Darting past him, I said, “I’m not sure,” and freed the hem of my dress as I headed for the office. “Did you see anybody?” I threw back at him, walking in dizzy circles in the room where we keep all our files—and our safe. It’s really just a “show” safe from back in my great-grandfather’s day, when he used to keep the day’s receipts in it. Now it was an antique piece of furniture with a faded white lace doily and a foot-high porcelain clown playing a violin on it. Inside were my old report cards and the boxed ashes of Maria Pia’s beloved dachshund, Carmen, who died back in 1974. No cash, but no one else knew that.
The safe was untouched.
“No, I didn’t see anyone,” Mark said, scratching his chin.
“I was jumped,” I told him. “Don’t touch anything.” The office looked undisturbed, which was more than I could say for myself. I still had to see the worst of whatever had just happened in my restaurant.
“So I’m guessing this isn’t a good time,” he said, trying for humor.
“Probably not,” I said in a tight voice, not even looking at him. In one of those acts you can’t explain, like saving a cloth napkin out of a tornado-flattened home, I stopped by the storeroom and grabbed the two delivery sacks used on me and started to fold them with shaking hands.
Call the cops,
came that same little know-it-all voice that bothers us with admonitions like
Don’t forget to floss.
Where was my purse? Where was my phone?