You Cannoli Die Once Part 5

"One of us should."

"Honestly, Eve, one little mistake-"

"Nonna, please. You know I love you."

"What if you're lying pa.s.sed out on the floor? Who's going to let in the paramedici?"

Oh, for G.o.d's sake. "I'll take my chances."

Her eyes narrowed and her voice dropped to a dramatic whisper. "What if it's Landon lying pa.s.sed out on the floor?"

Low. Really low. I actually gasped and she pressed her advantage, painting the scene. "And Choo Choo is home shaving his head nice and close"-in Maria Pia's view, her grandson's choice to go hairless was akin to my wearing pants-"and you're home wondering what you can wear to ruin your chances."

"Well, if n.o.body's there," I said, leaning toward her, "who would know if Landon pa.s.sed out, hey?"

She slammed a hand on her chest and said imperiously, "I am his nonna. I will know."

"All right, Nonna," I said finally. I would find out why she really let Arlen Mather in to Miracolo. I would find out why he pulled down my Caruso 78. I would find out whether she was indeed on her way to pick up her dress for Festa della Repubblica-or with him, instead. But for now, "Keep the key," I told her, sounding casual. If she thought I'd backed off the key business, she might get reckless.

I asked her, "Was Arlen retired?"

She gave me an innocent look over the rim of her cup. "Semi," she said.

"What did he do?"

"This and that," she offered. And, to clarify: "Here and there."

"You'll have to do better than that with the cops, Nonna."

"Ours," she said grandly, "was a love relationship."

Well, I couldn't go anywhere with that. "Did he leave any stuff here?" Toothbrush? Boxers? v.i.a.g.r.a?

She sprang up, raised a finger at me, and flowed out of the kitchen at a pretty good clip. I heard her clip-clop down the hall and up the stairs. Finally she returned with a blue summer-weight blazer over her arm and a Polo Ralph Lauren dopp kit. Luckily, at that moment her landline rang out in the living room and she darted off to answer it. While she was gone I fished around in Mather's blazer, pulling out a movie stub, a nearly empty packet of Tic Tacs, and-from the breast pocket-a worn blue business card.

Viceroy Vinyl Your Source for Vintage Opera Recordings Buy * Sell * Appraise Abel LeMeur 212-765-8302.

www.viceroyvinyl.com With a thrill of discovery, I slipped the business card into my pocket, and then dug around in the kit. Brushes for teeth, nails, and hair. Clippers for nails and nose hair. Mint floss. Three different prescription meds. The only one I recognized was an anticholesterol drug. As I heard Nonna head back toward the kitchen, I hurriedly tapped the names of the other two meds into my phone, then zipped up the kit and set it back on top of the blazer, where she had left it. There's something infinitely sad about going through the personal-very personal-possessions of the newly dead. The dead who got up one morning perfectly healthy and had no idea that Fate was patiently hanging around outside.

When my nonna reappeared, she brushed back some hair with infinite weariness. "It was Choo Choo."

"Nonna," I said, gesturing to Arlen Mather's things, "you'll need to turn these over to the cops."

She staggered back a step. "It feels like poor Arlen is getting lost in all this-this-murder business, do you know what I mean?" She stared for a moment at the pathetic little pile of his things, and then her face fell apart and she started to cry. "He would simply hate all this."

Being the victim and all. I squeezed her shoulder, wishing I were Dana, who could do it better.

She pressed a tissue against her waterproof mascara. "You're thinking I should go to the-the-police place and get it over with."

Maria Pia was just going to have to suck it up and go see Ted and Sally. It would look a whole lot worse if she didn't. "That's a yes, Nonna."

Of course, she shot me a look like I was exiling her in a dugout canoe somewhere deep in the Amazon. "Thank goodness he wasn't shot. They'd want to know if I own a gun."

For the first time in the last twenty hours, I laughed. "Well, if that happened, you'd really have nothing to worry about." If my granny really had a hate on, the worst she'd do is serve somebody b.u.t.ter that she'd left out for a week.

"Well, I don't know why you say that." She seemed offended.

"Oh, that's right," I joked, "I forgot about your nine millimeter Browning handgun."

"Of course I don't own a Browning, Eve." She laughed at the very thought. "You know my gun is a Glock."

I lost no time calling Landon. "Did you know Nonna packs heat?" I slammed myself into my ten-year-old blue Volvo sedan and jammed the key into the ignition.

He was silent for a moment. "Well, does she actually carry the, uh, heater?"

I backed out of Nonna's driveway. "Landon, listen to you. 'Heater.' You should try this s.e.xy talk on Jonathan."

"No," he said shortly. "Too much too soon."

I could see his point. "I think Nonna keeps the gun in the drawer with the custard cups. She kept eyeing it while she was telling me that she would never tell me where she keeps it."

"The question, of course," said Landon slowly, "is the ammo. I vote for removing it."

"Unanimous."

Landon slipped into his communing-with-the-spirit-world voice. "Check the drawer with the ramekins. Right below the custard cups. That's my guess."

Landon often had flashes of insight into our grandmother's labyrinthine brain. I'd definitely check the ramekin drawer next time. "Is this something we have to worry about at the restaurant?" I had visions of Maria Pia taking out some disgruntled patron who dissed the gnocchi.

As I hit Friends Way, the prettiest boulevard in Quaker Hills, we chewed over whether Maria Pia had a permit for the "heater." We decided she probably didn't. The Glock was likely one of her impulse buys, like the time she bought scuba equipment.

In the short run: snag the ammo. In the long run, we would research plastic Glock look-alikes online and order a replacement for whatever was stashed in the custard cup drawer. She'd probably never miss it.

Then Landon had to go. His a.s.signment for Operation Free Maria Pia consisted of quizzing shopkeepers on the north side of Market Square for info about suspicious activity in the commercial district the morning of Arlen Mather's murder.

"Be sly, caro," I urged him, kind of breathlessly. "Sly."

He tutted at me. "Girlfriend."

"Remember, you're not getting just information. You're getting alibis." Landon was a good choice for that stretch of the district: he was in a bocce league with the owner of Sprouts (Landon designed the team uniform), he hit garage sales with the owner of Pleasure Chest Antiques, and was still on good terms with his former boyfriend Jimi Baker, the locksmith at Baker and Locks.

Of the remaining operatives, Jonathan-who hadn't lived in Quaker Hills for the last ten thousand years and didn't know every citizen's choice in toilet paper-was put on research detail, along with Vera Tyndall. Choo Choo took the shops on the south side of Market Square (he and Reginald's bouncer, Adrian, belonged to the same gym, but Adrian actually went). The charmingly abrasive Paulette got the east side because the group felt those shopkeepers would cave quickly under an Italian steamroller; and I got the leftovers: the Becks, Eloise Timmler from the creperie around the corner, and Maria Pia herself.

Alma Toscano was a.s.signed to pound the beat on the west side of the square. Landon believed Alma was hoping to entice Sasha Breen, the sleek-like-a-blond-whippet rich-girl owner of Airplane Hangers, into selling her line of hand-decorated shoes, Toscano's Tootsies-"Art for Your Feet!" (or, as the discerning Landon mutters, "c.r.a.p for Your Corns!")-at the shop. The hard-luck Alma had apparently cornered the market on felt, feathers, b.u.t.tons, beads, fabric paint, and glue guns.

I parked the Volvo down the street from Miracolo. Then, pulling out the business card from Arlen's jacket, I put a call in to Abel LeMeur of Viceroy Vinyls. I don't know what I was hoping for, but some insight into Arlen would be a start. How much of a collector of vintage opera recordings was he? And would any possible murder suspects step out of those particular shadows?

The voice that rumbled "h.e.l.lo" sounded browned by years of cigarettes.

As a cover story, I had decided to shoot for vague with a possibility of money. So I introduced myself and told Abel LeMeur that I was calling about the estate of Arlen Mather. I had discovered a Viceroy Vinyls business card among Mr. Mather's possessions and thought I'd inquire about his appraisal services.

"Mather, you say?" LeMeur sounded a little more alert.

"Right. Arlen Mather."

He told me it must have been a couple of years since Mather came to his shop in Greenwich Village. Bought a rare 1928 recording of Rosa Ponselle singing "Pace, pace mio Dio," and that was it. Only time he ever saw him. Then LeMeur explained his appraisal fees and asked how big Mr. Mather's collection was. This question I sidestepped, shoveling something about how the man had just died and we hadn't gone into many details yet, at which the record seller offered condolences.

"I got the feeling from some things Mather said that he did most of his business with Calladine," said LeMeur.

"Calladine?"

"Geoffrey Calladine in Vancouver. Big, big seller. Calladine's Cla.s.sics, that's him. Guy's so big he doesn't even have to advertise."

My eyes strayed to the two vehicles that I a.s.sumed were unmarked police cars, out in front of Miracolo, but my ears belonged to LeMeur. "Have you got a number for him?" When the guy on the other end sounded cagey, I rea.s.sured him that Viceroy Vinyls would handle all our appraisal needs. Mollified, he set down the phone and looked for Calladine's contact info. When he came back on, he rattled off a number with a Vancouver area code. I thanked him and let him go.

Since there was a three-hour time difference, I knew my call to Calladine's Cla.s.sics would have to wait, so I locked up the Volvo and headed for the restaurant. Crime scene tape still festooned the front door, so I flipped the latch to the stockade fence that rimmed the property and strolled along the flagstone walk that led to the courtyard and outdoor dining area. I picked up an empty sandwich wrapper that had blown over from Sprouts. The last few days had been dry, so any chance at footprints, or whatever else I thought I might find at the scene that the trained professionals had missed, was nil.

I pinched a couple of withered white honeysuckle blooms hanging from the trellis along the long brick wall, then peeked through one of the windows. A couple of CSI guys in paper booties were doing a sweep of the dining room, and a third was dusting for prints on the double doors to the kitchen. I tried to think it through. Was Arlen Mather's killer already inside Miracolo, that morning, waiting for him? Or did he follow him in?

Or-and here, I have to admit, my chest felt rickety-did his killer let him in with her very own key? What could the well-groomed, well-dressed Arlen Mather possibly have said ("You call this opera memorabilia?") or done to my pistol-packing nonna to have made her snap? It's not as if he stole her carefully guarded recipe for os...o...b..co (braised veal shanks). It's not as if he's Belladonna Russo, Nonna's culinary archrival, who should stay east of the Delaware River.

As I rounded the building I glanced in the small window to the office, then quickly flattened myself against the wall, hidden by the tumble of honeysuckle spilling over the window frame. Inside the office, standing stock-still between the bookshelves and the closed door leading into the kitchen, was Joe Beck. Clearly hiding.

Why was I always finding this man on my property? Was there some weird trespa.s.sing karma going on between us? One day he's violating my compost bin, another he's glommed against my office wall offering up prayers to the G.o.ds of likely stories that the CSI guys won't take it into their heads to check out the office.

Which led me to believe that Joe had arrived on the scene before they did.

Now, I may not have a well-thumbed copy of the Pennsylvania Penal Code on one of those bookshelves next to Joe's very nice shoulder, but I was reasonably surprised his morning was including breaking and entering. Was he not what he seemed?

Angry, I stepped in front of the window and waved my arms like I was a castaway and he was a low-flying plane. Finally, he noticed, and then the conversation got interesting.

He pressed his lips together and gave me a wry look.

I thrust my arms at him in a gesture meant to convey something along the lines of ya-ha?

He jerked his head toward the closed door. Twice.

I smiled wickedly and folded my hands in plain sight.

He sagged dramatically.

I widened my eyes at him.

He widened his eyes at me.

I gave him a carefully crafted look of disgust and indulgence. Then, with a stony glare, I jabbed a thumb at myself, made a yakking-it-up gesture with my hand, pointed to the CSI team, rippled an eyebrow at the hapless Joe Beck, then shoved a finger at him and showed him two fingers running away. He seemed keen and grateful.

I walked to the back door, limboed under the yellow tape, and let myself into the kitchen, leaving the back door slightly ajar. With a quick glance at the closed door to the office, I noisily stamped my feet and exhaled like I had just made it to Everest base camp. When a couple of unfamiliar heads appeared in the round windows of the double doors, I gave them the full personality.

"Hey! Hi! I'm Eve! This is my place!"

"Listen, this is-"

Skirting the taped body outline on the tiles near my prep table, I motored over to them. "I found something!" I declared, brandishing the crumpled wrapper from Sprouts.

"You can't be in here-"

"Do you think it's important?" I pushed my way into the dining room. "Is it a clue?" Perturbed but curious-like dogs in training wondering when the h.e.l.l the treats were going to make an appearance-they followed me away from the double doors over to the bar, where they had set their crime scene kits. I gave the team my most riveting expression-which I hoped wasn't coming across as psychopathic-and launched into a tale of my walk around the side of the building, as told by Edgar Allan Poe.

To hear me tell it, the crumpled wrapper was capable of spells, boils, the evil eye, and choking you with a tasteless vegan sandwich. I dropped the offending clue into the gloved palm of one of the team, who thanked me through gritted teeth and reminded me to please not cross the police tape again.

At that moment, I saw Joe stroll past the front windows, giving the wandering Akahana a pat on the back. I suddenly lost interest in the CSI team, mumbled a thanks, and slipped out the back. In the short time it took me to hit the street, he was gone. I stormed two doors up to the florist shop, where the red-and-white Open sign hung lopsidedly on the inside of the door. You bet you're open. I was so mad, I felt like I had lockjaw.

Joe was half collapsed against the counter, his head in his hands.

"What were you doing inside my restaurant?" I demanded.

He looked up. "Thanks for getting me out of there."

"You're welcome," I said like I had just granted him an audience with the queen. "But you didn't answer my question." I crossed my arms, taking in his nicely creased charcoal pants and pale pink shirt. A burgundy-and-gray tie was neatly coiled near the register. Looking good, Beck. To stay focused, I was going to have to force myself to recall the floral swim trunks.

"Visions of disbarment danced in my head. Since when do CSI teams show up this early?"

This appeared to be rhetorical, so I pressed on. "Did you have a key?" Like half the population of Albania. "Or did a set of lockpicks come with your law degree?"

"The door was open."

"Oh, right." I snorted attractively.

"It was," he said with some energy. "I thought my wedding ring might be in the couch."

Then he fished around in his pants pocket and pulled out a gold band, looking triumphant.

I don't know why it all chose that moment to come crashing down, but it did.

Nonna would be suspected of murder.

I had fallen off the stage of the New Amsterdam Theatre. Only once, but it would feel like every night for the rest of my life.

And I would die manless, hunched like a strega over an onion-anchovy sauce.

"Look," I said, my chin quivering, "I want you to stay off my property. Thank you for yesterday with the keyboard and all." I started to back away. "But I don't want to find you climbing out of my compost or hiding in my office or-or-dancing the tarantella in my dining room, okay? You want to come in for a great thank-you meal sometime, once we're back open and my nonna's safe and the only thing my crazy cousin Kayla does"-I glared at him, dialing up the volume-"is . . . her job, then fine, you come, and I'll make you and your poor wife a saltimbocca so good, it'll fool you into thinking you're still in love-"

"You're a little late," he said, his mouth twisting. "We've been divorced a few years."

"Well, then," I said grandly, "dinner for one." He was still getting the risotto. "But until that time, stay away from my property. And stay away from me."