“Well,” I sighed, “I’ll have to see the space first.”
“Of course.” He jerked his dark blond head toward the flower shop. “Come on.”
I turned to check on Dana and my cousin Kayla. The crowd had increased; I saw Adrian the bouncer from Jolly’s Pub across the square, a frazzled old man in a gray overcoat and apparently nothing else, and a few wandering Goths who hadn’t heard just how far out of Philly or style they had gone.
“Kayla, I can’t use any of this,” I shouted at her. “Take it all back—”
An unmarked car pulled up and double-parked alongside one of the black-and-whites. Out climbed what I’d put money on being two detectives, one a tall blond woman in boots, the other a man in jeans and a linen sport coat. They spotted Joe Beck right away.
“Joe,” the male said, looking at our stranded little group.
“Ted,” said Joe.
We could all take lessons from male conversations.
“Sally,” added Joe.
She adjusted her sweater, which took all of her attention. Plus Adrian’s. Then: “Joe.”
The Ted guy took out a battered spiral notebook and addressed our group. “Which one of you”—his eyes slowed at Landon—“is Evelyn Angelino?”
*
The name confusion thing wouldn’t bother me so much if I hadn’t gone out of my way to become a household word. If you happened to be in the audience during the October 23, 2009, performance of
Mary Poppins
at the New Amsterdam Theatre, you’ll remember the header that poor unfortunate dancer Eve Angelotta took off the stage during “Step in Time.”
Backstory? The sudden and colossal onset of an oncoming head cold, followed by being handed an antihistamine backstage by a fellow dancer. Considering I never take anything, not even vitamins, when “Step in Time” started, my legs felt like logs disconnected from my body. All I could do was watch those logs with a kind of horrified but dozy detachment while I tried to pump my prop chimney brush, which now felt like trying to bench-press a utility pole.
Long story short, I stepped clear off the stage (cue horrified screams from the seats), asleep with my eyes open. The fast-thinking dance captain, Tony Treadwell, followed me with a back flip and pulled me out of a broken-legged sprawl. With Tony propping me up, we struck a toothy pose to everyone’s amazement and delight. The paramedics managed to collect me through the orchestra pit and nobody was the wiser.
So whenever somebody calls me Evie Angeletti or Ava Angelo or Evelyn Angelino, I bristle. What does a girl have to do to become a household word?
Sighing, I sent Landon, Dana, and Kayla across the square to Jolly’s Pub, where I hoped the classy older man who owned it, Reginald Jolly, would at least give them a drink on the house. Then I told Ted, nope, I don’t know who the dead guy is. Nope, I don’t know how the dead guy got inside; the door was locked when I got there. Nope, I have no idea why he’s lying on our Caruso record. A crazed collector?
After a bunch of other questions the detective released me temporarily, so I went up the street to Flowers by Beck, lugging ten pounds of flank steak. Joe showed me the back room where James apparently taught ikebana classes, and I decided that it would do.
When the bell over the front door tinkled, I followed Joe into the front room. While he waited on a customer in a gray business suit, I prowled the shop and came to a stop in front of the refrigerator.
Perfect! Thirty seconds later, my ten pounds of flank steak were the new neighbor to a pail of lavender roses, red and pink Oriental lilies, and spotted gold orchids. Ted had told me we’d have to close for a day, maybe two, while techs went over the crime scene, and I wasn’t about to let this prime meat go to waste.
When this was all over, I’d thank Joe with a dinner at Miracolo. The risotto. It’s the cheapest thing on the menu.
While the customer was looking around to decide what he wanted, Joe produced an electric keyboard from his brother’s storage space upstairs, where they stashed instruments the two of them had bought and tried, so if I also had a sudden need for steel drums or a xylophone, I knew where to come.
I was threading my way through the floor displays to return to Miracolo, to post a note to the pianist applicant on our front door, when the flower shop’s bell tinkled again.
In walked Detective Sally, with a troubled look on her face. “Ms. Angelotta?” Close on her heels were Dana, Landon—looking as taut as rubber bands on a rotisserie chicken—and our monumental maître d’, my cousin Choo Choo Bacigalupo.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Joe pause in giving the customer his change.
“Yes?” I said.
She held up a black leather billfold. “We’ve got the victim’s ID. His name is Arlen Mather. Does that ring any bells?”
I staggered backward from the bad news, knocked over a four-tiered display of African violets and, in a crash of broken pottery, went down, down, down.
Arlen Mather was my grandmother’s boyfriend.
3
Sally squinted down at me on the floor. “Your grandmother’s boyfriend, and you don’t know him?” she said in a testy kind of way.
I said the only thing that would explain it. “She’s from Genoa.” Choo Choo and Joe grabbed me by my arms and pulled me to my feet. Since Sally didn’t seem to get the point, I went on, “They don’t talk.” Then I added: “They cook and they paint and they go to sea.”
Dana looked at me quizzically. “I thought Maria Pia was born outside Philly?”
Merriam Webster,
un•help•ful,
adj.
:
see
Dana. “She was, but her
family
’s from Genoa. It’s the same thing.”
Sally fixed me with a skeptical look. “That still doesn’t explain why you don’t know—”
I sighed. “Maria Pia is very private about … the things she’s very private about.” Hearing myself, I winced. If only this detective knew my grandmother, she wouldn’t even bother with the question. I ask you, what good’s a reputation if it doesn’t give you a pass in the crazy department? Has this Sally person never been to Miracolo? Doesn’t she eat?
I exchanged a look with Landon, who was crouched in the carnage of African violets, picking up shards of pottery.
“I completely get it,” put in Dana, bumping up against me in her beige silk pants.
As I gave Detective Sally my grandmother’s name and contact information, I thought about poor, konked Arlen Mather, who would never again be able to sample Maria Pia’s, er, delights.
Joe clapped a hand on my quivering shoulder and told me I could clean myself up in the workroom in the back. Then he started to sweep the mess into a pile. I pulled the broom from his hand, telling him, “My mess, my sweep.” Then I sniffed and added, “And my bill.”
“No problem.”
The blond detective jiggled her pencil, which looked as nibbled as her nails. And mine. “Who has a key to your restaurant?”
Holding their collective breath, Dana, Landon, and Choo Choo turned to me, as wide-eyed as a colony of meerkats. They must have felt the awful truth coming before I even thought it through. “I have two. The one on my key ring, and the spare I keep at Jolly’s for emergencies.”
The meerkats were nodding their approval.
“Then Mar-Jo Properties has one—that’s our landlord.” I held up three fingers. Then my mind slowed down, with no more obvious key holders to report. No pianist yet, no needy, possessive boyfriends, no—
Wait.
“Kayla!” I blurted.
But then Landon held up a finger. “No, no,” he announced, “just yesterday I saw Kayla hand over a key to—”
And we all watched while his poor face lost all expression.
“Yes?” intoned Sally.
“To our nonna.” We could hardly hear him. “Kayla was returning Maria Pia’s key.”
“But that’s for the Quaker Hills Cookbook Club,” I warbled. “A book club for food geeks. They meet the first Tuesday morning of the month, and they critique the recipes in all the newest cookbooks.” Was I in full babble mode yet? “Then they all eat egg-white omelets with asiago cheese that Nonna prepares. She’s the club treasurer.”
Was nobody moving?
Or, for that matter, breathing?
Sally snapped her notebook shut, turned on her stylish boot heels, and left, throwing something back to me about more questioning later.
Landon handed Joe Beck the broken pieces he had picked up.
Dana stroked my hair behind my ear again.
Choo Choo, in a hoodie as big and green as all the Poconos, whispered, “It doesn’t mean she did it, you know.” Which is the first time that thought got voiced. That Nonna might have done it.
“We’ll clear her name,” announced Dana in the evangelical voice she had used three years ago as the lead in
Anything Goes
at the local Windmill Theater. “And we’ll do it starting now.” Because Maria Pia has one of those combustible personalities that wouldn’t come across well once the cops started to dig.
My cousins got noisily on board, but Choo Choo, scowling through his carefully trimmed scruff, looked grim and fatalistic. I thought it would probably take more than us to clear our beloved nonna’s name, but we were the place to start. Landon announced a potluck at his condo that evening at seven, with only happy food allowed—whatever that was.
Then I told them all, “Now go help Kayla take all her produce to the farmer’s market. And don’t forget to invite her to the potluck.” That call to arms mobilized the three of them, and they left the Beck flower shop.
Once they were out of sight, my shoulders dropped and I turned to Joe. “I can’t afford four hundred dollars an hour,” I said quietly.
Joe Beck pursed his lips. “You may not need to. Let’s see where the investigation goes.” He plucked a mashed pink violet from my sleeve. “If you do end up needing legal help, I offer a good-neighbor discount.”
My throat started to close up. “Since when?”
“That’s not the right question.”
My voice slid up toward the crybaby range. “Then what’s the right question?”
“ ‘Joe, will you show me where I can get cleaned up?’ ”
“That’s good,” I managed, shielding my eyes with my hand, but not before he noticed my tears and got all awkward.
He patiently stared at the embossed tin ceiling while I held up a finger, then my whole hand, followed by two fingers pressed to my lips, then my whole fist like you do when you try not to burp. He read the hand signals just right. “Take your time,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets.
I wasn’t sure time was going to make any difference. Because whether it was now or days from now, all I could think of was that my grandmother had a key to Miracolo—and a murdered boyfriend inside.
*
These were the choices: Drive across town to hold my grandmother’s hand and tell her about Arlen Mather before the cops came calling. Or … go through with the interview and audition of the only applicant for the pianist job at our cop-overrun restaurant.
I made the only possible decision.
After leaving the pianist, Mrs. Bryce Crawford, a voice mail about the change of venue, I downed one of the falafels Joe Beck bought from Sprouts after he set up the keyboard in the ikebana classroom, then turned the door sign to Closed and left to meet a client.
I figured we needed a pianist more than Nonna needed me to hold her hand. She was a curiously unsentimental woman. So I let myself off the tell-Nonna-her-beau’s-got-a-little-less-on-his-mind-lately hook for the time being. And though it’s a terrible thing to say, I didn’t put it past her to be secretly thrilled to have such a dramatic story to tell over customers’ tiramisus.
She’d be okay.
She’d … be okay.
Then I growled the growl I usually save for Nonna when she’s being her most maddening, pulled out my phone, and left her the weirdest voice mail ever. “Just a heads-up, Nonna. Your boyfriend has turned up beaned”—wait, don’t hold out false hope that she could be schlepping stuffed artichokes to an ICU somewhere—“and
killed
in the restaurant. I’m really sorry to tell you all this in a voice mail, Nonna, but I wanted to let you know to expect the cops on your doorstep anytime now.” How on earth do you end a message like that? “Sorry,” I muttered lamely, then hung up.
I was determined that Mrs. Crawford, whoever she turned out to be, would not pad away from here in her tan orthopedic shoes and Church Lady coif without having signed my employment contract. Even if her piano skills went no further than “Bringing in the Sheaves” and “The Phantom of the Opera,” she was mine. At this point I could live with anything.
And then, she arrived.
“Is this the place for the piano audition?” said a deep, nasal voice.
I stopped playing my two-handed “Chopsticks” and eyed her. She was a tall woman dressed in a lime-green cocktail dress and matching heels. Plunging neckline, wide-brimmed hat, white fishnet gloves, black-and-lime square shoulder bag.
“Temporarily.” I stood and thrust my hand at her. “A spot of trouble up the street at the restaurant.” Although “spot of trouble” sounded less like homicide and more like a deep-fryer malfunction. “I’m Eve Angelotta, the head chef.”
“Mrs. Bryce Crawford.” Now that we were in handshake range, I saw she had the shoulders of a linebacker, wiry hair of strangely indeterminate color, and what could only be pancake makeup over her face and neck. Nicely blended. Red lip liner, coral lipstick. The fake eyelashes were like awnings over her pale green eyes.
“And may I call you … Bryce?”
She didn’t even blink. “You may call me Mrs. Crawford.”
“Of course.” Maybe I should head over to give Nonna the bad news, after all …
She peeled off her gloves, slapping one lightly on the keyboard. “Is this the instrument I’ll be using?”
“Only for the audition. There’s a Yamaha U1 in the restaurant.”
“Mm,” Mrs. Bryce Crawford observed noncommittally.
I handed her a ballpoint pen and an application for employment, which she filled out on the counter by the cash register. Then we sat almost knee to knee in folding chairs used for the ikebana classes, while I tried to look employerlike as I glanced at her application.
She crossed her legs, which had been recently waxed. The heels were four inches, easy. Mrs. Crawford gave a Northeast Philly address, three clubs where she’d played most recently—not a church on the list—and a degree in piano performance from Berklee College of Music. No year. But then, I hadn’t asked. What I was mostly aware of, as I looked between the lime-green Amazon looking at me inscrutably and the application form, was a very serious omission.