Murder Alfresco #3 by Nadia Gordon Read Free Book Online Page B

carry it around forever, and in fact she refused to do so. Encouraged by the sight of the tender green sprouts that had popped up seemingly overnight along the raised rows of black soil in the garden, she bounded up the back stairs, almost crashing into Andre Morales sitting at the top of them.

6
    Not that she wasn’t glad to see him. It was just that she was not expecting Andre Morales or anyone else to be sitting on the back stoop of the restaurant at this hour. He basked in an air of joie de vivre. The early sun warming his pretty face, his white shirt crisp with enthusiasm, he looked every bit the rising star chef that he was. Even the heavy steel watch fastened around his wrist, a Breitling he fondled affectionately whenever he was bored, seemed to foretell an inevitable, swift rise to fame and fortune.
    “Did I startle you?” he said.
    “You nearly gave me a heart attack,” she gasped.
    She leaned down and gave him a kiss. Among Andre Morales’s many attractive attributes were full, sensuous lips like a Brazilian beach beauty. Sunny squeezed in beside him on the stoop and they stared at the back garden. The winter crop of lettuces were producing nicely and the spring onions, carrots, and potatoes showed solid ambition above ground. Howell Mountain struck a stoic pose in the distance, and beyond it, the craggy face of Mount St. Helena.
    “Mind telling me what’s going on, or do I have to guess?” he said.
    “I was going to call you this morning.”
    “I would have been honored.”
    He was angry. Andre had the very practical habit of becoming calmer, more polite, and even charming when he was upset. She was just about to begin the whole story when Rivka Chavez opened the garden gate and walked up the path toward them. This, at least, would save her having to repeat herself. They were still outside when Sunny heard the familiar sound of Wade Skord’s old Volvo purring into the parking lot. She looked at Rivka. “Are we having a party I don’t know about?”
    Wade Skord opened the garden gate. “Ladies. Gentleman.”
    “Déjà vu,” said Sunny.
    “You can’t just drop a bomb like that and take off.”
    They went inside and Sunny steamed a pot of milk and fired shots of espresso. She layered cold milk, then warm milk, then creamy foam into glasses and poured a shot into each. Rivka loaded up a tray with the lattes, orange juice, and a plate of biscotti while Andre opened the French doors to the patio and wiped the dew off one of the tables and four chairs.
    Besides Sunny’s mania for perfection and the fresh pastas to rival anything served in Rome, Wildside’s best feature was its patio. The patio stopped time. It was an intimate space where no evidence of a busier world intruded. At one end stood a massive cedar tree, which littered the patio with amber-colored needles and freshened the air. In the corner across from it, the low adobe wall that circled most of the perimeter rose up to form an outdoor fireplace. In the spring and fall, the maitre d’, who was also the sommelier and gardener, kept a fire going, burning vine trimmings and, for the holiday week, piñon logs brought from Santa Fe. Night-blooming jasmine tumbled over the awning that protected the French doors.
    Andre pulled up a chair and spooned sugar into his latte. “In the big office buildings in Italy,” he said, “they employ a girl barista in a miniskirt on each floor with a little espresso cart.”
    “Sounds like an urban legend to me,” said Rivka.
    Andre stirred his coffee and looked up at Sunny, who saw for the first time how tired he was.
    “Have you even been to bed yet?” she asked.
    He licked the spoon. “I closed my eyes in the shower. Does that count?”
    “You stayed out all night?”
    “I would have gladly spent it sleeping in the arms of a good woman, but she wouldn’t return my calls. I had to turn to my friends for support and distraction.”
    “Time,” said Rivka, making the T gesture. “You guys can hash