You Cannoli Die Once Part 17

"Also Li Wei," said Paulette, adding his name to her list.

Also Giancar-lo Cres-pi, she scribbled.

Everyone seemed a little alarmed at her thoroughness.

"Vera," I said suddenly, turning to her, "you were the first to arrive yesterday." Now that Joe's fine caffeine was zooming through my system, I still couldn't shake the feeling that something was off yesterday in Miracolo.

Vera nodded, interested.

"Did anything seem odd to you, in the dining room?"

I had the attention of all the other ops.

Vera tipped her head. "Like what, Eve?"

I shrugged. "I just keep having the feeling that maybe something else got stolen in the robbery. Only, I haven't figured it out yet."

"Well . . . " She tried to reconstruct the scene, "I came in . . . I told you how much better my brother Eric's doing . . . we talked about Maria Pia . . . and I covered the tables with the clean linens." Which was pretty much how I remembered it, too. She opened her hands wide. "No, nothing struck me, Eve. Just that all the opera stuff was gone."

The others had gotten bored and moved to the table for more goodies, but I said, "Tell me again, Veers. Nice and slow. Don't leave anything out."

Step by step, she recounted how she had come through the front door, called out "Hi" to me where I sat at the back of the dining room, and set her jacket on a chair. She walked over to the empty shadow boxes, said a few things about what a shame, and so on-which I remembered, as well-but nothing struck her as otherwise out of place. Then she had come over to me, telling me about her brother, handing me the empty linens bags from the top of the pile, grabbing an armful of tablecloths. And while she had covered the tables-nothing missing, all cloths accounted for-we talked about Maria Pia.

Maybe it had something to do with that part of our conversation. Some little piece of information had almost triggered something, a memory, an observation, a- At that moment Dana took center stage on Joe's largest rug and made an announcement. "There is no easy way to say this," she began oratorically. Chatter dried up and heads turned toward her, goodies stalled midair. "But I have decided to accept another position."

This drew some puzzled looks.

"You're leaving Patrick's office?" asked Paulette.

"No," Dana said patiently, "my presence there is indispensable to the operation, so I will always be the office manager." She clasped her hands just under her chin. "I will be singing almost nightly at Le Chien Rouge."

This announcement was met with a general outcry that could only be called tepid.

She turned to me, hands clasped like a supplicant. "Which means tonight will be my final performance at Miracolo."

Something akin to a huzzah went up, which Landon then explained to her meant we were all thrilled for her career advancement.

Totally our loss, said someone.

Eloise Timmler's gain, said I, remembering Mark's gropes.

Whatever will we do? (This from Paulette, who hid behind a napkin.) Leo the mandolin regular will just have to soldier on.

Brett on the homemade ba.s.s will just have to man up.

Awash in our support, Dana practically twirled, babbling about how she hoped we'd understand that these new demands on her time meant she could no longer partic.i.p.ate in Operation Free Maria Pia, and that she hoped we'd stop by to hear her stylings of that little wren, Edith Piaf.

15.

When the meeting broke up fifteen minutes later, Landon and I thanked Joe and headed for the door. "Oh, sure thing," he said casually, turning to say something to Alma. Not for a second did it look like he was going to peel me off my attentive cousin and harangue me about withholding evidence. With a sigh, I realized he had written me off. I only hoped it was because he was concentrating all his energies on Nonna's bail and eventual defense.

On the drive to Miracolo, I debated tonight's dinner specials with Landon. I settled on potato gnocchi and maccheroni con la trippa, a delicious sausage soup from the Piedmont area. Landon bickered with me a tad over the wisdom of making soup at the end of May, but I insisted we could crank up the air-conditioning. After all, it was intoxicatingly fragrant. And Maria Pia's dime paying the utilities. Landon relented.

We spent a lovely afternoon having a three-way gnocchi-making race, Landon, Choo Choo, and I. By the time we were done, we set aside our gnocchi boards and counted: Choo Choo, who had very agile thumbs for such a big guy-and the secret of making good, light gnocchi lies in the thumb-beat us by about fifteen gnocchi. Landon decided on two different aromatic sauces to pair with the gnocchi and got busy with tomatoes.

By the time we opened our doors, the wait staff had arrived. And finally Mrs. Crawford, decked out in white silk pants and a navy silk tunic with a mandarin collar and powder-blue embroidered lotus flowers. Her wiry hair was swept up off her neck with a couple of chopsticks. Jonathan was back on duty as sommelier, which put a spring in his cute little step, and Choo Choo had changed into his maitre d' outfit. I was strictly black pants, black chef jacket, and black toque.

We looked sharp.

We were sharp.

The first half of the evening went so smoothly, you'd think we had been professionally ch.o.r.eographed. Nothing boiled over, nothing broke, no double bookings, no drunks. At eight o'clock, I stepped back from the Vulcan range and took a few deep breaths. My maccheroni con la trippa was nearly gone, enough for maybe three more servings, but the wonderful smell of the succulent sausage remained like a delectable ghost.

I looked around. Li Wei was bopping along to his iPod, and Landon was plating two orders of the gnocchi. Life was good. I ambled over to the double doors and peered through the gla.s.s into the dining room, where Mrs. Crawford's chopsticks were failing, although her fingers were not. Only one empty table. It was very satisfying to hear the chatter, the pleasurable laughs, the soft jazz.

And then I noticed the group of four at table 7.

It was Joe Beck.

And James Beck.

And James's wife, Olivia.

And another woman. She was wearing a white silk blouse with a deep ruffled neckline and a black pencil skirt. The bling was gold. The hair was gold. She looked like someone who had grown up with money in a household where even the cupcakes were monogrammed.

She could have been a horseback-riding Bryn Mawr debutante, whose idea of slumming was spending summers on Martha's Vineyard with Mumsy and Daddy. But could she dance Sutton Foster's entire routine for the t.i.tle song of Anything Goes? Could she make maccheroni con la trippa from scratch? Could she even p.r.o.nounce it?

But I had to admit, she did kind of look like she went with Joe.

I heaved a sigh.

I could go right out there and meet her. After all, I'd paid a buck to hire Joe as my lawyer, so it might be okay to interrupt their split of champagne and thrust out a hand. She would lift her professionally waxed brows at me, and Joe would explain that I'm the head chef. Then she'd ask politely whether I had to go to school for that.

On second thought, I'd just stick to the kitchen.

I watched Joe make a toast, then James made what must have been a witty response, because all four of them laughed. When I realized that my nose was actually pressed against the window, I sprang back in horror. The Becks-"monied" folk, as Uncle Dom would have called them-lived in a world that would never include me. I was just someone who made food for them, in the back, out of sight. They would never see my face or even know my name. Sooner or later, even my "lawyer" would forget it.

A buck goes only so far.

The rest of the evening flew. I kept my head down when Li Wei broke a winegla.s.s, and I kept my head farther down when I b--d the veal I was pan-frying and had to start the order over. Alma got a handsome tip from the Becks, then they left. When the dining room was empty, Mrs. Crawford evaporated. Fewer late-night regulars than usual turned up. Dana got through her swan song with a minimum of missed notes, then half cried a farewell and full-out pitched her new gig into the mic.

There is certainly nothing I like better than advertising another establishment.

Paulette, Vera, Jonathan, Choo Choo, and Alma all said good-bye and left.

The regulars packed it in earlier than usual, as did Giancarlo.

After Li Wei slipped out the back door, I told Landon-who knew something was up with me but was too tired to ask-to go. I'd finish up alone.

So what was I feeling, in a week when I'd been bagged and burgled; a week when I'd discovered a dead body right here in my kitchen, and my grandmother was carted off to jail and I decided to hide some evidence; a week when my life seemed to consist only of nights alone and days cooking?

We wait for our real lives to find us and begin-that's what I was feeling. Like those lives were offstage somewhere, waiting for us, while all the time we were here, waiting for them. And sometimes the lives we think we've left behind are really all around us. Like the stars and geraniums, and cousins you can count on.

I rummaged in an old canvas bag on the bottom of the office closet and pulled out a beautiful, beat-up pair of tap heels, slipped them on, and fastened the straps. Then I plugged the Anything Goes CD into the sound system, clicked through to the final number in Act I, the t.i.tle song, and cranked it all the way up. And pushing the prep table to the far side of the kitchen, I danced. Flap heels, chugs, double-and triple-time steps, wings, paddle turns, and riffs-I danced, slamming my taps off the metal sides of the worktables and counters whenever I could. What I didn't remember of the ch.o.r.eography I made up, throwing in Maxi Fords and Cincinnatis wherever the music let me.

I tapped through all the men taken by others. I tapped through the sight of the murder. I tapped through the never-ending years of saltimbocca, no matter how good, that stretched out ahead of me; I tapped past the end of the music. And when I finally stopped, breathing hard, everything around me, the stove, the walk-in fridge, the prep table, and the pots and pans, all seemed to watch me in awe.

Because there I was. Not just a head chef who used to dance.

Still a dancer.

Sunday Over a cup of espresso on my padded window seat (a couch wouldn't fit in my 130 square feet of living s.p.a.ce), I looked outside. Some people leave boots out on their porch, some leave flip-flops, some leave garden clogs. Me, I left my tap shoes there when I got home at 1 a.m. Cradling my cup in my hands, I cataloged every aching muscle from last night's dance spree. To be fair, I think the shoulder was still the fault of my attacker.

Was I really considering leaving Nonna in a chefless lurch? I felt an unwelcome twinge of conscience. And did I think it would be a slam-dunk to get work in New York after three years? Eve who? When I started to sound too much like Scarlett O'Hara in my own head-Where will I go? What will I do?-I set my empty cup in the sink and headed out to the Volvo.

There were certainly ways in which I didn't trust Maria Pia. For instance, I was convinced she had left out some key ingredients when she pa.s.sed on a few of her own recipes, and let's not even touch the whole plot to get me out of town in order to redecorate Miracolo while I was gone. But I was certain that she had not killed Arlen/Max.

Maybe I was just stuck in that far kingdom of my own blindness, where I believed Mark Metcalf kind of liked me, where Dana would never dare to shove off from Miracolo's lazy, hazy sh.o.r.e, where no bad would come to me for hanging on to the silver bracelet Nonna dropped at the crime scene. But, bottom line, I knew Nonna was innocent, and I was going nowhere until Operation Free Maria Pia could spring her.

When I pulled up outside Miracolo, there they were, waiting: Alma, Paulette, Vera, Choo Choo, Landon, Jonathan. Dana was missing, treating us to our first awareness of her cutting off the old allegiances. She was probably off somewhere rehearsing a Piaf playlist. I felt strangely lonesome.

So I parked and then used my almighty new key to let the gang in to practice the tarantella for tomorrow's Festa della Repubblica dinner crowd. While they rehea.r.s.ed, I'd inventory my supplies for the upcoming week.

As soon as the gang got inside, they started jabbering about sashes and dance partners and vests. From a canvas tote, Paulette produced six tambourines with streamers and pa.s.sed them out. Everyone immediately started shaking and whapping them. Then, with a flourish and a whole lot of commentary, Landon drew out colorful sashes and black felt vests for the men. Everyone "oohed" at the sashes, which were the red, white, and green of the Italian flag, and Landon demonstrated on Jonathan how to tie the sash.

Then Vera dug into a backpack and pulled out three women's hair combs with long, colorful streamers attached, giving two to Alma and Paulette. Before long, Choo Choo, Landon, and Jonathan were fully outfitted in their black felt vests and colorful sashes, and Vera, Alma, and Paulette were wearing long white ap.r.o.ns and fussing at their hair decorations.

My job was to cue up the "Tarantella" CD.

Landon clapped his hands, and everybody paired off. Landon was teamed with Alma, Choo Choo with Paulette, and Jonathan with Vera. At Landon's cue, I turned up the volume. "Five, six, seven, eight!" called Landon and the three pairs started the tarantella step, a combination of light kicks and steps, followed by the tarantella do-sido. Sashes swished, streamers bounced, tambourines went rogue. For a while I watched, sitting in a booth-the one where I'd been sitting on the day of the attack-while making out the next week's shopping list.

When the music ended, Landon cried, "People!" and launched into a lesson on tambourine skills.

I headed back to the storeroom to check on the supply of semolina flour and votive candles. The door softly shut behind me as I flicked on the light, and I had an uneasy moment when I remembered struggling to free myself from the double bags. This was my first time in the storeroom since it had happened. Except for the nervous tic that started over my right eye, I p.r.o.nounced myself PTSD-free. Flour, flour, flour. On the shelves at the back I found pastry flour and bread flour, but we were going to need to get our hands on some prime semolina to get through next week's homemade pasta needs. How had I let the supply get so low?

Then I pushed aside the gla.s.s vases that we hadn't used in a while-and my hand started shaking. Okay, okay, eye tic, trembling hand. So you're a little more upset than you're letting on. It's no big deal. All's well that ends well, I chuffed at myself, offering up the cut-rate wisdom you hear only from those who have never experienced anything, oh, untoward. Like, say, the blond beauty with Joe, a woman who's probably never been scolded, never failed-certainly never been bagged and dumped. Talk to me, blond beauty, when you fall off the stage at the New Amsterdam Theatre, or when your dad takes off when you're a teen, leaving behind a note that doesn't even mention you. Talk to me when you discover a corpse in your kitchen. Talk to me then.

By then my throat was tightening up as I stood, free and safe, in the well-lighted storeroom. Never mind the trembling hands or tics over the right eye and now below the left. I was fine and dandy. Anybody messes with me, I had cans of olives I could hurl. Biting my lip, I sank against the shelves holding the canned goods, the feeling of being strapped into the linens delivery bags rushing at me. The realization that I'd been hauled and dumped here like a sack of potatoes. The sound of the door slamming, a chair jammed up against it, trapping me inside. Then kicking and struggling against the bags and the sensation of being smothered, until I managed to rip my way free.

I swallowed hard.

Settle down. Settle down. It's over. Aside from the theft and a bruised shoulder, nothing terrible had happened. Just leave. Get out of the storeroom. But, aside from sliding down to the floor, I couldn't move. And I was pretty sure I was hyperventilating. I grabbed a small brown bag and started gasping into it. With my luck Joe would turn up right about now, finding me sweating and hacking into a paper bag.

At least when Mark the Groping b.u.m had freed me, I was standing on my own two feet. A woman of action. Dashing around, thrusting the bags at him, a.s.sessing the loss, calling the cops. He was nothing but a blur to me at that time.

Come to think of it-I stared at a spot on the floor while the little brown bag kept inflating in and out, in and out-what happened to the delivery bags? Tomorrow Arne the Austrian would be back to trade the old bags and tablecloths for new. What the heck had Mark done with them?

As if I weren't irritated enough with the man. As if I'd ever take him back, even in my fantasies, after watching him feel up the likes of Eloise.

I dropped the paper bag and scrambled to my feet, looking around. Where had he taken them off to? In all the confusion after I discovered the theft, the routine stuff flew out of my head. If I couldn't find the linens bags, would Arne charge us for the loss?

I checked behind the stacked canned goods and boxes of fluorescent lightbulbs. I checked in the big pile of dish towels. I checked behind the boxes of replacement gla.s.sware. Every corner of the storeroom I searched. I didn't find the bags, but my hands were steady now and I could at least breathe normally.

I strode back into the kitchen, glancing around. No bags. So I went back into the dining room, where the troops were still polishing their tambourine skills, and sat back in the booth where I had recovered from the attack, my arm resting on the pile of clean tablecloths that day. I called out, "Say, has anybody seen the linens bags Arne delivered the other day?"

Paulette was clearly scouring her memory banks.

Jonathan and Alma shook their heads.

Landon asked, "Have you checked the-"

"Storeroom?" I cut in. "Yes."

Choo Choo gave a mighty shrug. The black vest didn't move.

But Vera said, "You had them, Eve."

Blow me down. "I did?" Then: "When?"

"When I came in for work. Remember?"

"No," I said slowly. What was she talking about? "What day?"

"The day it happened." She gestured to the walls. "The theft."

"No, I didn't," I said, confused. What was tickling at my brain?

Vera came toward me, pointing to the booth. "Sure you did. Right where you're sitting now." My head jerked to the right. The booth was empty, but a strange feeling started to sink through me. Whatever had been bugging me, whatever had been jiggling at my memory those past couple of days, was trying to surface.

"The tablecloths were next to you, right?" Vera asked.

I nodded slowly, trying to get the complete picture. My hand settled on the imaginary pile of table linens that Arne had delivered.

"Remember?" she asked. "I took them and started-"

"Covering the tables," I finished.

Vera nodded. "Well, the delivery bags were right on top."