A Dish Best Served Cold: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (Italian Kitchen Mystery, An) by Rosie Genova Read Free Book Online Page A

started the music going with the Other Frank who held a special place at the Casa Lido—Mr. Sinatra. While I hummed along to “Summer Wind,” its namesake was howling outside, accompanied by a driving rain that lashed the windows and beat a tattoo on the roof. I scanned each table to make sure the candles were lit, just to be sure.
    “Hey, Vic,” Lori called from the coffee station. “Have you seen Alyssa?”
    I shook my head, but Florence answered, “Last I saw her she was helping Jason with busing. Which is
not
her job, by the way,” she said, backing out of the kitchen with a tray of fruit. “I have no idea where they are now. That damn kid is never where he’s supposed to be, anyway.” She shook her head in annoyance. I frowned as I watched her serve the fruit. Why the antipathy for poor Jason? What did she have against him?
    The subject of my thoughts emerged from the hallway, wiping his hands on his dark slacks. He’d probably had to use the bathroom.
You better have used soap, kid,
I thought. “Hey, Jason, have you seen Alyssa?”
    He looked up and blinked, as though he hadn’t expected to see me. “Naw,” he said. “Dunno where she is.”
    “Um, you can probably finish clearing the dessert dishes now.”
    “Okay,” he said, and shambled over to pick up a clean tray. I shook my head and jumped at a tap on my shoulder.
    “Looking for me?” Alyssa said, smiling, not a blond hair out of place.
    “Actually, Lori was.”
    “Oh, good. I wanted to ask her how we were splitting tips tonight, because I want to be sure the boys get something. Some of the temps are going home early.”
    “That’s sweet of you, Alyssa. You know I don’t get a cut, so maybe share that among the guys. But talk to Lori first.”
    “Will do!” she called, her ponytail whipping around behind her.
We sure have an interesting group of summer hires,
I thought. An aging coquette, a sorority girl, and a sullen, silent adolescent. I found myself wishing for September.
    *   *   *
    By about eight thirty, when the guests were lingering over after-dinner drinks, I saw Danny making the rounds among the crowd. Well-brought-up Italian children are trained to never leave a place without, as my mother put it, “making your good-byes.” Depending on the size of the party or the number of relatives, this process can take anywhere from ten minutes to an hour.
    “Did you get a call, Dan?” I asked.
    He nodded shortly. “Yeah, we gotta clear the beach.” He shook his head. “God preserve me from storm-watchers. These idiots think it’s fun to stand outside in a hurricane.”
    “Please. You used to do it yourself. I remember you and Tim bringing your surfboards down there. Drove Mom crazy.”
    “I didn’t know any better.” He glanced at his watch. “In a little while, people are gonna be hot to get out of here; it might be better for them to wait for the eye of the storm, when there’s a lull.”
    “We can’t stop them if they want to go, Dan. But it’s raining pretty hard out there. And right now no one seems too concerned.” I gestured to the crowd, many of whom were now dancing to Rosemary Clooney’s infectious version of “Mambo Italiano.” It appeared that while music played and wine flowed, our guests were content to wait out the storm in our cozy dining room.
    “Until the lights go out,” he said grimly. “I gotta hit it. Listen, if I don’t get back here, would you and Cal get Sofia home?”
    I promised him I would. “Hey,” I called. “What was all that about with Father Tom?”
    He turned, arms crossed in his familiar Tough Cop stance. “Nothing
you
need to worry about.” He turned abruptly and strode out the door without looking back.
    “Okay, I think I hate all the men in my life tonight,” I said under my breath.
    “But not your dear old dad, right, baby?”
    “Where’d you come from? And you are exempted from my list, yes. And maybe Father Tom,” I added.
    I linked my arm through his and