Basil Instinct (25 page)

The second call, as I hit the country road that led straight to the Quaker Hills Career Center, was from Joe Beck. Considering how all-business he sounded, I suddenly found myself wondering whether any of the delicious making out yesterday had actually happened. Too much too soon? Too little too late? Second thoughts? Since I was about a mile away from the battleground I was headed to and had made the probably fatal mistake of bringing only my invisible armor, I didn’t have the stuffing just then for figuring any of it out.

“Got the results of the postmortem, Eve.” He sounded like I was a line item on his Monday morning punch list. “I used to date one of the morgue assistants.”

Ah, Mondays. Always reassuring. “And . . . ?”

“She died around midnight.”

“The morgue assistant?” Why was this so confusing?

A beat. “Georgia Payne.”

“Okay.” I’d need some serious alone time to toss that fact into my mental hopper and see who or what it kicked out.

“And—just as we thought—she was electrocuted.”

Not what
we
thought—I thought Georgia had dropped dead with no help whatsoever.

I noisily blew out some air. I’d like to think it had nothing to do with the fact that he was right. I felt my eyes widen as I wondered whether death was instantaneous—or whether in those final moments she had known her killer, or wondered what would become of Abbie.

To tell you the truth, I felt kind of stricken. All over again.

“Eve?”

“Here,” I said. “Thanks, Joe. I’m just about to turn in at Quaker Hills.” I flicked down my turn signal. “Where I’m teaching them how to make a simple white sauce that I’m pretty sure will end up either down my back or dumped on my car seat.” Then I actually babbled something to him about having a nice day. He said something kind of quick—it might have been as complicated as “Wait!”—and I thumbed the phone off.

As I wheeled a little too fast into the parking lot—were those my tires screeching?—I got the third call.

“Eve?”

“Fina?”

“Maria Pia gave me your number.”

While she started to tell me about what hap
pened at Maria Pia’s induction after I left last night, I turned off my ignition and watched a blue-and-white minibus emblazoned with
Callowhill Residential Institute for Behavioral Success
pull right up to the front door of QHCC’s main building. Out jumped Corabeth Potts, Mitchell Terranova, Slash the K, and Renay Bassett, who somehow managed to get inside the building while they punched, tripped, mocked, and otherwise reviled each other. Ah, the groves of academe.

But in a matter of seconds, Fina Parisi had my complete attention.

The cops who came to 7199 Gallows Hill Drive around 11:30 the night before, explained Fina, were from the county sheriff’s department. Fina imparted this tidbit as though the difference between town cops and county sheriffs was the key to everything worth knowing. These worthies had just received an anonymous call about the death of Anna Tremayne, who had died violently at Miracolo Italian restaurant, a popular eatery in Quaker Hills. (At that I cringed, hoping the word
eatery
never made it to my nonna’s ears, although the word
popular
might soften the blow.) “So . . .” I followed up slowly, “it wasn’t about the special Belfiere brew, after all?”

“Not at all,” she replied. “It was all about the suspicious death of your sous chef.”

No time like the present. “Who died around midnight. How’s your alibi, Fina?” I reached for my stash of pico de gallo chips. For this conversation, I needed serious damage control.

“I had company all night.” She sounded matter-of-fact.

“The kind of company that wasn’t asleep in the east wing?” Did that sound a little sarcastic? I munched. Checked my watch: 9:57. Three minutes until my descent into madness.

“It was the kind of company,” she drawled, “who, if he’s asleep in the east wing, you’ve got to wonder what he’s doing there in the first place. So, no, Eve.” Then she added by way of explaining the guy’s creds: “He’s both a judge and an insomniac, so he can vouch for me at the key times.”

Nice for her—nice in so many ways I decided just to let them roll on by me. She gets the judge. I get the likes of Junior Bevilacqua. Fina Parisi went on to describe how the sheriff questioned her about that hotshot Anna Tremayne, her connection to some secret cooking club, and her blog post. And by the way, could Ms. Parisi please explain what was meant by the term—here the sheriff consulted his notes—“oh murder”? Fina, figuring it was how a non-Italian heard the word
omertà
, obliged.

And I noted she did not suggest any historic correlation between
omertà
and
oh murder.
Instead,
she explained to the sheriff that
omertà
added to the mystique of their two-hundred-year-old secret all-female culinary society. Members just like to believe there’s something terribly important at stake, otherwise why should they fork over—although she didn’t actually use the words “fork over”—the two-thousand-dollar initiation fee?

This little gumdrop of information was the biggest one I had snagged since putting together that Georgia and Anna were one and the same.
Two-
thousand-dollar initiation fee?
Clearly the Belfiere
B
tattoo alone wasn’t enough pain. Had Maria Pia Angelotta already anted up?

“I thought you’d want to know,” said Fina, wrapping up. “Invite me for some antipasto sometime,” she said before we murmured goodbyes at each other. I hung up, and crawled out of my Volvo as though the poor car was incapable of protecting me from what was to come. I grabbed my pathetic new leather portfolio and weighed it speculatively in my hand.

Perhaps I could hedge my bets by slipping in a few flat stones? I tried swiping the air forehand and backhand with my portfolio, wondering just what kind of defensive damage I could cause. Yes. Yes. Very good. As I kicked around in the brown grass just past the curb of the parking lot, looking for some flat stones, I pondered the info Fina had given me.

So the cops knew about Georgia being Anna Tremayne, celebrity chef. And the cops also knew that Georgia/Anna was connected somehow to a very old and secret cooking society called Belfiere. And the cops had heard about Anna T.’s hysterical blog post that appeared to blow the whistle on Belfiere, laying bare a motive for murder . . . for someone. And finally, the cops knew the murdered “hotshot” Anna Tremayne had violated
omertà
, the code of silence that was somehow worth buying into for a mere two thousand bankable clams.

I slid ten nice, flat stones into my leather portfolio, then tried the backhand once again.

Very, very nice. On the one hand, not too heavy to slow me down. On the other hand, packs enough of a wallop to make Mitchell or Slash suddenly unsure of the difference between a roux and a rarebit. Satisfied, I stashed it in a cardboard box with the two special sauce pots I had brought from Miracolo just for today’s lesson.

Somewhat more confident now, what with my weighty class materials, I headed toward the front of the Quaker Hills Career Center, slowing only momentarily as I strode though the doors . . . which was when I remembered one of the very first things Fina had said when she called.
The sheriff’s department had received a call.

An anonymous call.

Whoever had made that call knew better than to call the Quaker Hills PD. Knew that Belfiere was meeting out in the county, the jurisdiction of the sheriff’s department. Knew that Chef Fina Parisi, who lived at 7199 Gallows Hill Drive, was the host.

The significance of this insight eluded me for some time, while I hotfooted it down the brightly lighted hallway ahead of that resident dragon Courtney Harrington. The term
strega
, while suitable for Belladonna Russo, whose own daughter kept her out of the club that represented the highest in culinary arts (here I couldn’t help cackling), seemed somehow inadequate for that person known as Courtney Harrington. This I would have to ponder. But for now, I pretended not to hear her strident shouts of “Angelino! You! You, Evelyn Angelino!”

For some strange reason, the kitchen classroom was suddenly promoted from Tenth Circle to sanctuary. I oozed inside so seamlessly, so ectoplasmically, I found myself wondering why I didn’t look into special ops in those months while I was recovering from a leg broken in two places and wondering how I was ever going to pay the rent. I clutched my stuffed portfolio to my chest and scanned the room. Only because it didn’t know any better, the sun was shining in all over the place. Lighting up
the stainless steel classroom tables, the sequins on L’Shondra’s top, and the metal studs on Mitchell’s face.

“Good morning, class,” I said, flashing around a crocodilian smile.

Frederick Faust raised a hand high. “Is it true we’re down a man?”

I blinked at him, possibly a twenty-two-year-old, with fair hair parted once and for all back in 1955, the bangs combed back over the top. He must have looked cute in lederhosen when he was three. The Faust kid was the anti-Mitchell, but I’m not sure I liked him any better. “That man would be Georgia Payne, yes.” Where’s a situation room when you need one?

Renay Bassett slung a braceleted arm over the back of her stool and favored him with a look that would braise beef without turning on the burner. “Listen, Adolf,” she said, warming up, “the next time you—”

And from there the eight of us—minus the man down—got fast-tracked to chaos, what with Renay telling Frederick just what he could do with his whisk, Corabeth belting out “Castle in a Cloud” from
Les Misérables
,
and Slash the K drumming
his little black heart out on the table with wooden spoons. A couple of punches were thrown by L’Shondra, pushed over the edge by that wise guy
wannabe Mitchell, who was trash-talking behind his hands. Poor little Will Jaworski was reminding me of a big-eyed Ewok, fastening me with a look that said he still had a stockpot full of faith, both in my ability to control the classroom and in the Mets’ chances of winning the World Series that fall.

“Silence!” I bellowed. Then I shoved apart Mitchell and L’Shondra, flung apart Frederick and Renay, told Corabeth to save it for late night at Miracolo, grabbed the drumsticks out of Slash’s mitts, and pulled Will Jaworski out of the fray and up to the stovetop burners, where I used him to demonstrate how to make a simple roux. At which point the word “Suck-up!” got whispered around the sunny classroom. I glowered at them all.

While Will measured out the milk to mighty snoring sounds from Mitchell, Frederick asked again about Georgia. In as dignified a manner as possible, I explained that Georgia Payne had died suddenly at Miracolo, and I was sure we were all going to miss her very much. Just when I thought we could move on to the addition of flour to the roux, Slash piped up that Georgia had been “whacked.” Then he raised an eyebrow, no easy thing given the hardware in what I could only call his face assembly, and looked smugly around at the others.

A few of them blanched better than any broccoli I had ever known. Nobody moved. And Will’s stirring hand was poised trembling over the saucepan. “That true, Chef A.?” said L’Shondra.

I temporized. “Georgia died under . . . mysterious circumstances, yes.” I’m not sure that sounded any better than “whacked,” but it was all I had.

Despite the clamor for full disclosure, more details, and vomit-producing gore, I told them all to get busy at their stations—“except for you two”—I pointed at Mitchell and Slash, jerking my head in the direction of the hallway. Giving each other the eye, they sauntered toward me. I stared at nothing in particular as they got their swagga on and passed through the door I held open.

As the door eased shut behind us, I took a quick look up and down the hallway—some late students loping off to Automotive Technology and Cosmetology classes, which I’m pretty sure were two separate courses—no sign of that
stregissima
Courtney Harrington—and subtly backed the slouching Mitchell Terranova and blinking Slash Kipperman up against the wall. How best to handle these two, short of introducing them to my lovely leather portfolio? I reminded myself that what I wanted was information.

“I spoke to Don Lolo” was my opener.

This news was met with such creepy joy that
Mitchell grabbed kind of ineffectively at his crotch and Slash actually high-fived himself. Then the two of them grooved to whatever music they heard in their own heads until I held up a warning hand. “First, before Don Lolo can bring you into the organization, you must pass the truth test.”

In that moment Slash went cross-eyed and Mitchell developed a sudden underbite. Their eyes ripped around my face like they were trying to determine just how far I was pulling their skinny little legs.

I went on to explain that Don Lolo Dinardo has unimpeachable information about the death of his lady friend, Georgia Payne, so he already knows the truth. What he wants now is to see whether your story matches it exactly. At which point my two wise guy wannabes got very studious, like we were heading into Final Jeopardy! “It’s all about that red purse, boys,” I said finally, lifting a speculative eyebrow at them and crossing my arms. “You need to come clean about how you got it. And don’t spin me any more lines, because Don Lolo knows the truth.” Which was more than I could say for myself. “There will be no consequences to you, you have to understand. But only if you come clean.”

So they bought it, while visions of black limos danced in their weird little heads, and their words spilled out. And I, Evelyn Angelino, reluctant
sleuth, cooking teacher to the star-crossed, hit pay dirt. The boys went on to describe how they had paid Georgia Payne a visit late that night at Miracolo. She let them in the back door, and while Mitchell distracted her, Slash pinched the red purse from the counter. Slash slipped it under his Phillies jacket. They liked her well enough—hey, she gave them some leftover biscotti—but they figured what the hell, a purse is a purse. (At this bit of insight, they spread their hands wide and I nodded like it made perfect sense.)