Tomorrow's Vengeance by Marcia Talley Read Free Book Online Page A

Edith, so stop whining.’
    I suppressed a laugh, gave the old guy a mental high five and, in my passable alto, joined in with him and the others:
‘“Weep no more, my lady. Oh, weep no more today. We will sing one song for my old Kentucky home, for my old Kentucky home far away.”’
    As the last notes of the hauntingly beautiful and melancholy tune died away the guy leaned over, extended his hand and introduced himself. ‘I’m Chuck,’ he said. ‘I live upstairs.’
    â€˜Hannah,’ I replied.
    â€˜Family?’ he asked, indicating Edith, who glowered disapprovingly like my great aunt Gerty.
    I grinned. ‘No, Edith and I just met. I’m waiting for a friend.’
    The pianist had a bottomless stock of Stephen Foster in her repertoire. ‘I Dream of Jeannie with the Light Brown Hair,’ was followed by ‘Beautiful Dreamer’ and a sensitive performance of ‘Old Black Joe,’ at which point Edith harrumphed, gathered up her Bible and stomped out of the lounge, her afghan trailing like a bridal train along the carpet behind her. Whether the singer noticed her departure or not, she seemed to sense that the mood of the audience needed lifting after singing about lost friends calling us up to heaven, so she launched into a spirited rendition of ‘Camptown Races.’
    Rather than prance around the room like several of the book club women were now doing, I checked my watch. Where the heck was Naddie? Thinking I might have gotten my wires crossed and she could be waiting for me in the dining room, I excused myself and headed off to search for her.
    Except for the tables and chairs, the dining room was empty.
    At the far end, a pair of doors labeled IN and OUT led, I presumed, to the kitchen. The doors were substantial, but not sufficiently padded to muffle the clang of pots, the clink of utensils and the sound of raised voices coming from the kitchen behind them.
    â€˜Idiota! Debo hacer todo yo mismo?’
Something metal clanged to the floor, followed by a string of words so vile that if I’d uttered even one of them my mother would have washed my mouth out with soap and grounded me for a week. Then:
    â€˜Idiota! Tarado! Pelotudo!’
    Idiota
, I got. But I’d majored in French, so the rest was lost on me, not that they’d teach words like that in Spanish 101 anyway. I didn’t need a translator to know that whoever was on the receiving end of the string of expletive deleteds wafting out of the kitchen like the aroma of sautéed bacon and onions was probably hiding in a cupboard or cowering in a corner, protecting his head with his arms.
    I decided to get out while the going was good, but I ran into Naddie coming the other way. She paused, cocked her head and listened. ‘Gosh, I wonder how he
really
feels?’
    â€˜Raniero?’ I guessed.
    Naddie nodded. ‘No doubt. Looks like an angel but has a devil of a temper. Save us from perfectionists with short fuses.’ She glanced at the antique Regulator hanging on the wall behind the hostess station. ‘We’re a bit early, Hannah. Would you like to see my town home before lunch?’
    I was about to reply when Raniero yelled, ‘Go! Jump in the oven! Make my life easier!’ followed by the bright, sharp sound of shattering glass.
    As if on cue Filomena erupted from the Tidewater Bar into the dining room, linked her arms through both of ours and urged us gently back toward the lounge, safely away from whatever disaster was noisily brewing in the kitchen. ‘The chef, he is temperamental, you know? Have you seen the show on television,
Kitchen Nightmares
? Raniero, he is like that Gordon Ramsay. Everything must be just so. You wait here. I’ll go see what’s the matter.’
    I could think of several television chefs who would be better role models for Raniero than the foul-mouthed Gordon Ramsay – Jamie Oliver, for instance, or Bobby Flay