Murder and Marinara by Rosie Genova Read Free Book Online Page A

Cal was wrapping up his work at the bar, and Lori was in the back getting the specials from Tim. As promised, I filled and wiped all the salt and peppers, my nose twitching furiously. As I was finishing, Massimo Fabri, our executive chef, swept through the front doors and paused dramatically.
    â€œ
Cara!
You return!” He held his arms out to me, and I gave him a European double kiss, one for each cheek. “You look wonderful.”
    â€œSo do you, Massi.” Our chef, with his swept-back hair and luxurious mustache, looked as though he would be more at home in the Metropolitan Opera House than in the Casa Lido. And he did occasionally break into arias in the kitchen. When readers asked me if any real person had inspired my fictional detective, I always lied and said no. But there was more than a little Massimo Fabri in Bernardo Vitali. “Listen, Massi.” I looked around to make sure my grandmother was nowhere in sight, but lowered my voice anyway. She had ears like a bat’s. “I’m trying to get Nonna to teach me to cook.”
    â€œHa!” he said. “Good luck with that, little one.” He set his toque on his head and rubbed his hands together. “And . . . Tim, he is in the kitchen?” He looked away from me as he asked the question; he, like the rest of the staff, as well as most of Oceanside Park, knew our history.
    â€œYes, he is.” I dropped my voice. “And you can say his name. It’s okay.”
    â€œGood.” He patted my shoulder. “Look. Here is another of your old friends.”
    â€œ
Hola
, Nando!” I said. “It’s so nice to see you.” His bright gap-toothed grin and round face reminded me of a cheerful jack-o’-lantern. He stuck out a plump hand and gave me his usual greeting. “Hello, Miss Victor.” Despite years of trying, I could never get Nando to drop the “miss” or add the feminine ending to my name.
    Nando Perez hailed from Ecuador and had worked here for nearly half his life, starting as a busboy and moving up to line cook. He spoke to my grandmother in Spanish and she responded in Italian, a communication style that confused the rest of us but worked for them. As always, Nando’s glistening black hair was ponytailed and braided, the top of his head covered by a hairnet. I don’t know whether he wore the net for reasons of health or beauty, but in fifteen years, I’d never seen him without it.
    My parents and grandmother came in right behind Nando. My dad headed to the bar to set up, and my mom took her place behind the reservation desk.
    â€œSo, honey,” Mom said. “How was your first day back?”
    â€œUh, good. Got all the napkins ironed and the setups made.” I risked a look at my grandmother’s impassive face. “Now all I have to do is plant a dozen tomato flats.”
    â€œThat’s nice,” my mom said vaguely, her nose in the black reservations book.
    â€œI have something for you, Victoria,” my grandmother said, handing me a rusted garden spade that was probably older than she was. “You still have a couple hours of light.”
    â€œThanks, Nonna.” I held up the dirty tool. “I’ll get right on it.”
    Feeling very much like a child sent off to bed while the grown-ups partied, I headed out the back door toward the garden. My mood wasn’t improved by the sight of the gold Escalade still occupying Lori’s space in the employee lot. What was Parisi’s car doing here? He’d left well over an hour ago. “You’d better come back and get this car, buddy,” I grumbled. “Or I’m calling my brother to come and put a big fat ticket on it.”
    As I stood and surveyed the garden plot, I caught a foul smell on the breeze.
Ugh
, I thought.
Nonna’s got a heavy hand with the fertilizer.
Knowing I couldn’t put it off one minute more, I sighed and dropped to my knees, dug