My brain was starting to hurt. I needed more information. A
lot
more information. Geoffrey Calladine was probably still asleep in Vancouver, so I’d have to wait on that one. In the meantime, what did I know for sure?
I was pretty sure Mark bagged and dumped me in the storeroom. The last time I ran into him on the street, I’d bragged about my opera stuff and set up the Friday meeting. At the restaurant, because he wanted to see me “at work.” Right there, I should have known something was up. How many men go squishy over watching a woman at work? Unless, of course, she works at a strip club. So forget the idea of his being in cahoots with Arlen Mather. All Mark needed was me, alone, leaving the door unlocked for him. Bag me, dump me, help himself to the goodies.
As I stood musing, Landon came into the kitchen, the tarantella tune following him inside. “Eve,” he whispered, “that guy is here.”
I frowned. “What guy?”
“The cowboy guy. The one you had me check out for you that time.” When I looked puzzled, he added: “Gay-wise.”
Mark?
Mark
was here? “What did you tell him?” I grabbed him by the unitard.
Landon blinked at me in surprise. “That I’d see if you were busy.”
Part of me really wanted Landon to tell Mark that I was nowhere to be found. But something had brought him here, and I wanted to know what. This was a great opportunity to get more information. And if he had come to play me, I was going to play him right back. Besides, Choo Choo was on hand as a bodyguard if necessary.
So I grabbed a hand towel, pretending to be drying my hands, busy, busy, and followed Landon into the dining room with a smile on my face.
And there he was.
And there came that pang just below my rib cage.
Really, Eve? This guy sacked and dumped you, and you still like the package?
He was dressed in boot-cut jeans over square-toed boots and a green plaid shirt with pearly snaps. Yee-ha.
“Hey,” I said softly, walking right up close, like I still liked him.
“All right, people,” Landon raised his voice over the music, “up to tempo, please, and—go!” As the three couples bounced into the choreography, I shot Mark a smile.
Mark creased his eyes at me. “Just thought I’d check on you,” he said in that low voice as wide as all Wyoming.
“You sweet man.” I puckered my lips at him, swishing the dish towel between us. “I’m fine.” I snapped the towel, which made him grin and take half a step back. Then I looked him up and down and asked kind of provocatively, “How are you?” The way I said it you’d think I was asking for sex credentials.
The eyes got narrower, the smile wider, and the double meanings started flying around the room. “Good,” he whispered, staring at my lips. “Real good.”
What a jackass.
“But I have to tell you,” I said, “I feel really bad about our missed … date.”
“Mm-hmm.”
He was giving nothing away. “You wanted to watch me work,” I said with a secretive smile. I let my eyes rove dreamily over his face and lowered my voice, hitching a finger in his belt loop. He took a manly step forward. “If that’s what you want to call it,” I teased, drawing on every seduction cliché I knew.
I had rendered him inarticulate. Teach
him
to steal the ruff of Ruffo.
“What do you say we reschedule?” I stepped up so close I could practically polish his pearly snaps with my boobs. “Say, tonight?” The bait.
He didn’t back away. “Mmm,” he murmured, “can’t tonight—going to a show—but tomorrow night we could … get together.”
I took a deep breath, making sure he heard it. “How can I wait?” I asked plaintively, making a little anticipatory noise.
He planted a soft kiss on my cheek, then took off with that semiswagger I used to find appealing.
I swung back to the tarantella dancers and the real world, thinking about the take-away.
He probably believed that I wasn’t wise to him, was still hot for him, and was dim, dim, dim. No worries about me. And I had learned that tonight he had plans.
Going to a show.
A perfect opportunity, I thought with a grin. For what, I didn’t know. But at least it was a start.
*
Then I did something I had done only three other times since I had ascended to the head chef throne: I put Landon in charge. Head Chef for a Day. He promptly promoted Choo Choo to sous chef (Vera clapped her hands) and Jonathan to maître d’. Since Jonathan didn’t have a suit, Landon left with him for Philly to find one before it was time to start prepping.
I did a quick checkin on the other “ops” to see how they were coming with their new assignments. Vera hadn’t had a chance yet to identify Max Scotti’s neighborhood and ring doorbells. Choo Choo reported that a phone call to Nonna yielded a stream of invective (“she cussed me out”) about the recent dessert special, so in his opinion the Great Cannoli Rebellion had given her a reason to live. (Although he questioned whether, when she gets out, I can say the same.)
Alma reported that Maximiliano Scotti had an unblemished record as a financial adviser and that a seminar he had run on retirement planning had yielded two pages of glowing testimonials. She was still digging.
Then Paulette, collecting the tambourines, reported that her investigation had brought to light the facts that Li Wei Lin is here on an expired visa, Mrs. Crawford attends Gamblers Anonymous meetings in neighboring New Hope, and Giancarlo Crespi is generally thought to be an alias for the fugitive “Niccolo” from the Weather Underground who participated in bombings during the mid-’70s. While we all stood there with our mouths open, Paulette stuffed the tambourines back into the bag and said kind of absently that she was still digging.
“Well,” I broke the stunned silence, “thanks, Paulette, for that update, and”—I riveted Alma, Choo Choo, and Vera with a look—“I don’t have to tell you how critical it is to keep it all secret while the investigation is still ongoing.”
Choo Choo looked like he was already longing for that simpler time, just five minutes ago, when our kindly arthritic bartender was just our kindly arthritic bartender. Alma and Vera moved closer together in a show of some sort of solidarity, which set Alma’s Toscano’s Tootsies jingling.
I desperately didn’t want to know any of those things about anyone in our little Miracolo family, and part of me wanted to shake Paulette silly for destroying the pasta-making utopia that existed in my head. The woman’s talents were totally wasted in rattling off the daily specials to a bunch of hungry customers.
“Whew,” Vera said, fanning herself with her hand.
I made a short little speech about respecting others’ private personal histories. But what if Paulette’s discoveries actually had some bearing on the murder? Could Arlen Mather have been blackmailing one of the three? Somehow I couldn’t imagine that Mrs. Crawford would kill a man to keep from having her gambling problem from coming to light. It just wasn’t the stuff of homicide.
But what about little Li Wei? How much did he have at stake? Was deportation enough to kill for if Arlen had found out about the expired visa? Maybe.
And then there was Giancarlo, our bartender for years and years. If he was on the lam from the feds for a set of old criminal charges, then it wasn’t an insane leap to think that, if recognized, he might be driven to murder.
There was just no way I could make this line of reasoning come out all right. As the others all left, I decided to go on the happy assumption that Paulette was simply wrong. It was some other Giancarlo Crespi she had dug up. Made perfectly good sense. Such a common name.
Did I even need to run any of these revelations by my lawyer, Joe Beck? Or was I just adding to the pile of Things to Hand Over to Detective Ted that might result in Joe’s throwing in the towel and leaving me lawyerless?
Risky, either way.
*
“Calladine,” came the cool voice at the other end.
“Eve Angelotta, Mr. Calladine.”
“Oh, yes,” he said slowly, “you had called about a Harlan Markman … ”
“Right,” I said. Then: “New day, new name, if that’s okay with you.”
The expert on classic opera recordings said, “All righty,” and waited.
“Do you remember doing business with a Max Scotti?”
“Max? Of course! How
is
the old chuffer?”
I might not know what a chuffer is, but I could certainly answer the question. “Well,” I said somberly, “I’m sorry to have to be the bearer of bad news, but Mr. Scotti died earlier this week.”
Calladine took it surprisingly well. “What about his collection?” he inquired.
I assured him these were early days yet—“To be sure, to be sure,” he said, probably to persuade me that he wasn’t just a predatory clod—but that I’d be sure to let him know what was available after the estate settled.
“Tell me,” he said with some energy, “did he ever get the Caruso?”
If I were a bird dog, I’d be quivering at attention.
“I spoke with Max just a few weeks ago, and he said he had a lead on one of the few extant recordings of Caruso singing ‘Your Eyes Have Told Me What I Did Not Know’ in English.”
My heart leaped. “Did he now?”
“Oh, yes.” Calladine laughed shortly. “Apparently he had come across it in the collection of an elderly friend … ”
Nonna would positively self-combust, right after hurling a stupendous
malocchio
at him, never mind that he was defunct.
“… but he had high hopes of getting her to make him a present of it.”
So Max wouldn’t have stooped to mere thievery. Maybe he figured he’d downplay the value of the recording and maneuver Nonna into giving it to him as a love token.
Steady, Eve.
I told Calladine I could say with certainty that the Caruso 78 was
not
in the collection of Max Scotti, but that I’d be sure to let him know if anything of Max’s was about to hit the market.
By the time we hung up, I think we were both sparkling with pleasure. I had figured out just about as much as I was going to about the mystery of Arlen and our Caruso recording. But my mind still hovered around the likelihood that the killer had no interest in the 78—otherwise he would have snatched it. Unless he had somehow overlooked it in the murderous heat of the moment.
I spent part of the afternoon at the public library at a computer, googling Li Wei, Giancarlo, and Mrs. C., without much success. Then I took to the Volvo and drove all around the commercial district of Quaker Hills, never pulling over, never stopping, like some kind of shark on wheels.
Keep moving or die.
To the casual eye, the driver of the Volvo was a Rastafarian—I had donned a dreadlocks wig attached to a crocheted hat in the colors of the Jamaican flag, which I had worn to a costume party in SoHo four years ago. To this ensemble I added a pair of John Lennon sunglasses.
Dana really did the disguise thing better, since the First Rule of Effective Disguise must be not to draw attention to oneself. But at least I had the cover of the Volvo. Outside my little work circle, I doubted my car was very recognizable.
As I oozed up and down the streets, the plan was just to reconnoiter. See who was around, and what they did. I’d stumbled upon Dana’s photo shoot earlier; maybe now I’d stumble on something else that would crack the case wide open.
I drove, not too slow, not too fast. Turning corner after corner, easing to a stop at the lights, snacking discreetly on pico de gallo chips.
I saw Dana walking through Providence Park, in a midnight-blue dress, her black hair bouncing, heading toward Callowhill Street. My guess: on her way for her first day of work at Full of Crêpe. I stepped on the gas.
I saw Akahana getting into it with the trash collector, who had beaten her to the can outside Sprouts. I saw Patrick Cahill, in a pussycat-gray summer jacket, make his jaunty way over to Starbucks. Paulette exploded out of the dry cleaner’s with a load of clothing on hangers, heading for the municipal parking lot. Adrian, the bouncer at Jolly’s, came out of the Logan Building, where I guessed he was patronizing Massage Mania.
And then I caught sight of Mark Metcalf. He appeared to be window-shopping at Quaker Hills’s only jeweler’s shop, a funky store owned by Arnold Blitzen, called Blitzen Glitz. But it was already past five, and the shop was closed. Then Mark slipped his hands into his jeans pockets and headed up the north side of Market Square, right toward me.
I adjusted my shades and pulled my hat and wig combo farther down over my face, slumping at the wheel. When we passed each other and he didn’t notice me, I moved forward and rounded the northwest corner of Market Square. I figured I’d go around the block and pick him up again on Callowhill Street, which is exactly what happened.
He stood waiting to cross the street ahead of me, and I flipped down the visor for a little more coverage. As I headed toward him, the idea of just gunning it crossed my mind. The creep.
I slowed at the yellow light; he raised a hand toward me in thanks; then he jogged to the far side of Callowhill Street. In my rearview mirror I saw him disappear behind Eloise’s storage pod, so I pulled into a parking space and slunk down. Let the reconnoitering begin …
I watched customers enter the front door of Eloise’s place, but didn’t see Mark go in. The pod blocked my view of the driveway, and cars passed by in both directions. Then a wailing EMS truck. Then a school bus. So he might have gone in through the back and I missed him. Then another possibility occurred to me: maybe he let himself into the pod. When were the two of them ever going to finish moving her crap in?
Come to think of it, where was Eloise living? The building seemed to be only a story and a half high, with the upper windows boarded up and painted over with decorative designs. It looked like an attic, not an apartment. So where was all of Eloise’s stuff getting hauled to? And why was the pod here, and not wherever she lived?
It felt weird to me.
But then, I was comfortable working side by side with fugitive bombers, and cannoli was my idea of revenge … Was I a good judge of weird?
At that moment Mark reappeared from the back of the pod, empty-handed. He wasn’t carrying a box of books or an occasional table, for a home; and he wasn’t carrying a commercial mixer or crate of glassware, for a restaurant business. He walked up to Full of Crêpe, and when he swung open the red screen door, a slightly off-key “La Vie en Rose” wafted outside.