Could I just scream “911! 911!” at the top of my lungs and have someone appear?
He moved in really close. “Can I help you?” he asked, his hand touching my bare arm.
All I could do was shake my head wordlessly.
Then, spying my purse on the counter just inside the double doors, I pushed the linens bags at Mark and found my phone. I saw it was 1:34 p.m. As I dialed 911, I stepped into the dining room and my breath caught in my throat. The walls were bare. All the shadow boxes had been taken down.
I dashed around the room while I told the dispatcher we had been robbed. The boxes had been pried open and left empty on the floor. I was stunned. Into the phone, I added, “And I was locked up.”
With Mark at my side, I stood in the center of Miracolo and surveyed the place. All of my opera memorabilia was gone. Galli-Curci’s fan from
Madama Butterfly
. Titta Ruffo’s ruff from
Ernani
. The demo record of Beniamino Gigli singing “Good-bye, Marie.” The prop dagger from the Met’s production of
Otello
. Rosa Ponselle’s corset from
Aida
. The jar of spirit gum used to attach Caruso’s mustache in
Rigoletto
. And the gloves he had worn.
It suddenly felt as if all of my friends had been kidnapped, and I was left alone.
*
Since Mark couldn’t help me, I sent him on his way. We went back and forth—
Are you sure? Yes, I’m sure
—a couple of times, but finally I prevailed. He told me he’d call. I’d told him I’d answer the phone.
So all I spent was a bad seven and a half minutes by myself until Sally and Ted showed up, eyeballing me, the wreckage, and each other, as if they just knew the theft had something to do with the murder of Arlen Mather. Today Sally was wearing a candy-striped shirt with a silver belt over a raspberry-colored pencil skirt and silver shoes. I would have paid money to watch her chase after the thief in that footwear.
“So,” she drawled, flipping open her battered notebook, “lay it on me.”
As I described what had happened, I started shaking, but I couldn’t tell whether it was anger or a delayed reaction to being scared stiff.
By the time Sally and Ted were done taking my statement and inventorying the stolen items, Landon arrived, singing Billy Joel’s “Movin’ Out” in his Broadway voice. Until he got a load of Quaker Hills’s finest.
“Landon,” I said, my voice shaking, “we’ve been robbed. All of my stuff is gone.”
Speechless, he took in the blank brick walls with a gasp, then the empty shadow boxes.
Sally and Ted packed it in, saying they’d send the crime scene team to dust for prints—yes, we could open for dinner tonight—and then left.
After I showed Landon the storeroom and he was properly horrified, he did the one thing I could not: he slipped into his white chef’s jacket and started to make cannoli. He was all business, and I was all inertia.
While Landon filled the deep fryer with oil and started to mix the ingredients for cannoli dough, I called Joe. He was in a monosyllabic mood, but I was too gobsmacked by the theft to care.
“We were robbed,” I said dramatically.
All I got was, “Huh.”
I waved a hand he couldn’t see. “All my opera memorabilia is gone!”
“That’s a shame.”
Was that the best he could do? “And I was attacked,” I disclosed in the voice eight-year-olds use when they’ve been chased home from school by a big scary dog.
“No!”
“Yes! I was bagged and stuffed in the storeroom.”
Here he mumbled. At first, it sounded like “Wish I’d thought of it,” but then I realized it was “Wow,” although it held a whiff of sarcasm.
Then I got to the point: “My nonna has hired Belinda DiMaio, of all people.”
A thoughtful “Hmm,” followed by “Bad.”
I let out a sigh. “Are you on a daily word quota or something?”
He made a noncommittal noise.
I crossed my eyes at Landon, who was sifting flour like he was panning for gold. Then I asked the critical question: “Will you represent her instead?”
A beat. “Sure.”
“Someone got sick so the arraignment’s not until early next week.” That should interest him.
“That’s tough.” He sounded sincere.
“What happens then?”
“Charges,” he said airily, “then bail.”
“Good. That’s good.”
As I watched Landon perform his signature one-handed egg-crack, I found myself feeling bad about Joe for some dim reason. A reason I had left behind, before being bagged and locked up taught me that I was a definite hindrance to somebody.
“Do I owe you an apology?” I asked him.
“Word,” spoken in a tone of voice that said
You must have ricotta stuffed up your nose.
Practically Italian. I was oddly touched.
I winced, remorseful. “Is it the hanging up on you, before?”
“Partly.”
“I’m sorry, Joe, I really am.” The guy had been nothing but nice. “So … we’re good?”
His silence was not encouraging. Finally: “Bracelet?”
I sagged, wishing he hadn’t remembered. “Not yet,” I had to tell him in a tight little voice.
He snorted.
Watching Landon measure out the sugar, I made my case to my lawyer. “Listen, Joe, my nonna didn’t kill that guy. But if I give that bracelet to Sally and Ted, they’re going to stop looking for the real killer—”
“Twenty years, Eve.”
“We’ll find the real killer, and then the bracelet won’t matter.” Umm … that sounded a lot like the gang on Scooby-Doo.
“You’ll get sprung just in time to enjoy menopause.”
And then I think I flipped out just a little. Landon turned to me, alarmed, with a bottle of Soave in one hand and a measuring cup in the other. I blithered into the phone to Joe about a crazy grandmother who’s lying about finding dead bodies and decorating behind my back, a bunch of tarantella dancers rehearsing behind my back, a diva who’s interviewing behind my back for a better gig that doesn’t even exist, and then the date I had
really
been looking forward to today went right up in smoke, despite my sizzling red dress, and if Joe knew what was good for him, he had better not say a
word
about the office couch.
Finally, he spoke. “Done?”
“I’m not sure,” I said belligerently.
“You had a hot date?”
“With Mark Metcalf, yes,” I said. “But now I look like a loser who can’t even manage not to get jumped in her own restaurant.”
“Well, if he’s a good guy … ” he said, barely audible.
“He’s a great guy. A day trader,” I added, trying to sound like I knew what that was. “We’ve already been out a couple of times, and I think this could really go somewhere.” God, I sounded like I was having a smoky late-night chat with college girlfriends.
“Well, great.” If words could sound like a shrug, his did. Then his voice changed and he sounded all buttoned up and buttoned down, telling me he was calling a meeting of the Free Maria Pia “operatives” for Saturday morning at eleven at his place. Time to check in on any new developments in the investigation.
“Okay, good,” I said, writing down the address.
“On the subject of any new evidence of the spoliated variety,” he said in a testy voice, “nothing will be said.”
“I understand.”
Landon turned on the mixer and stood over it watchfully. About cannoli, I had taught him everything I know.
I went on, “You’ve probably got plans tonight, but we could use your help if you feel like stopping by. Once all this settles down I’ll make you anything on the menu, paired with any wine you like, on the house.” Eve Angelotta: prefers crow served with milanese sauce.
“Probably not.”
“Oh.” My cheeks burned. “Okay.” To get to this level of rejection, you’d need earthmoving equipment.
“Thanks anyway,” he said. “I’ll go see Maria Pia.”
And he hung up. Probably off to do something behind my back, which apparently was where everything worth doing happened.
There was no getting around it. Whatever slight charm I used to have was now in short supply. Maybe it had been sautéed, steamed, and simmered right out of me over the last few years here in—let’s face it—what was really Maria Pia’s kitchen. Maybe I’d just left it behind in Manhattan, along with all the dreams that mattered. Say what you will about the rents, in New York I never discovered dead bodies, never needed a lawyer, never got jumped and bagged.
Had the last three years been a colossal mistake? Had I been hiding out?
Just when I was feeling like this was a question of somewhat more importance than when Choo Choo was going to get there with the fish for the
fritto misto di pesce,
Choo Choo showed up with the fish. He was growing a goatee, and his new shirt was a sexy shade of blue-violet and didn’t seem so Big and Tall as usual. And then I realized: there had to be a
bella ragazza
in the picture. I would quiz him on it when we were alone.
“What are the cops doing outside?” He walked the fish into the cooler.
I started to help Landon cut out cannoli dough with a margarita glass as a cookie cutter.
“Eve was attacked!” Landon said.
We filled him in on the events of the last two hours. It was very satisfying to see him scowl. When we were done, just after I threw in that Maria Pia had hired Belinda DiMaio but I was going to fire her because I had hired Joe Beck instead, he asked, “Do you think the theft has anything to do with the murder?”
“Like maybe Arlen was in cahoots with his killer?” Landon wrapped a cutout around the cannoli tube.
“I think it has to be related somehow,” I told them, grabbing for a bowl for the filling, “but I don’t know how.”
Choo Choo grabbed a twelve-inch frying pan from the overhead rack and slammed it on to the front burner. Then he started pressing a knife handle on several cloves of garlic like he was trying to get them to give up a secret formula. Maybe because of his size, he had a domineering presence in the kitchen, a kind of Us/Them attitude—and They were all inanimate objects. Pots, pans, produce, pasta. You’d think it would make him clumsy, but not so. He was a wonderful cook. But every meal was a battle between pre-food and the forces of good.
Landon slipped in his CD of
Anything Goes,
and I took a quick break to dance a few bars of the fabulous Sutton Foster’s routine from the Act I closing number while we all sang along. Then the Quaker Hills PD crime scene unit showed up and spent about an hour in the dining room, mainly dusting the shadow boxes for prints, while my cousins and I got our setups and preps done for the evening’s menu.
Since it was really warm outside and the wind was still, we figured on a big courtyard crowd, so Choo Choo went out the back to check on the tiki lights.
Then Dana showed up, hours before she was supposed to—wearing the exact same red sheath I had on. Hers did not look as though she had tussled with a puma. But on a day when I was making a decision to spoliate some hard evidence, defying my nonna on culinary matters, alienating my lawyer, and getting bagged and manhandled (without any of the really good stuff happening), I had used up all my available shock and dismay.
“Eve,” she said, sounding like someone died and she was elected to tell me, “can we have a word? In private?”
“Sure, Dana,” I said, wiping my hands on my apron and heading into the dining room. I pushed aside the table linens, topped with the two folded delivery bags, and sat down in the big booth. Dana settled into one of the chairs, completely oblivious to the duplicate dress imbroglio. “What’s up, Dana?”
I had rested a still-floury hand on the table, and she closed her manicured one over it. So there we were, holding hands. Never let it be said that I saw no action in my hot red dress.
“Eve,” she said with excitement, “I got the gig at Le Chien Rouge! I get to sing Piaf!”
Whose reputation, we can only hope, could withstand the soulful stylings of Dana Cahill.
“Well, well,” was all I could manage.
But, like the dress, she didn’t notice. She let go and sat back, looking like she was anticipating a turf war with the local don. “But darling Eloise”—okay, right there she lost me—“wants me two of the same nights I sing here, Eve, and oh, what are we going to do?” She waxed waxy about how difficult it gets when one’s in such high demand, but she was sure we were all reasonable people willing to work out something that would best benefit her career before the recording contracts pour in.
Straight face, Angelotta, straight face
.
And then it struck me: was Dana keeping a straight face whenever I talked to her about getting back into shape and resuming my Broadway career?
When she released my hand, I set it out of reach. Do I fire her outright? How could I do that to a friend?
As I formulated a response, I realized that something was bothering me about the dining room, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Had the thief taken something else, which I hadn’t noticed yet?
“Well, Dana,” I said, “I’m happy for your new gig”—she sat up straighter and brightened up—“but you’re going to have to choose.”
You would think I was speaking Uzbek. “Choose?” she said, all of her features collecting around her nose.
“Between Le Chien Rouge and Miracolo.” Probably the only brilliant thing I had come up with so far that day.
“But why?” she sputtered.
Figuring it out as I went along, I said I believed she needed to be careful not to overexpose herself as a performer. I added an analogy about how people all love what’s rare and turn their backs on what’s common. And I finished up by assuring her that I’d understand perfectly if she chose Eloise Timmler’s fine establishment.
And at that moment I realized I would miss her. I’d miss having her around because she’s an affectionate person who truly loves what she does, even if she doesn’t do it particularly well.
Puzzled at the idea of overexposure, but sensing it might not be good business, Dana said she’d have to think it over. But tonight she was ours. “Speaking of Eloise,” she lowered her voice in her
Gossip Girls
voice, “I think she’s got a guy.”
I was scrutinizing the dining room, trying to pinpoint what was bugging me. So far, nothing. I sighed. “Oh, yeah?” Was it possible there was a man besotted enough to look past the health code violations?