The Marsh Madness (25 page)

We all raised our glasses dutifully. I managed not to shout that if they’d had their way, Vera, Kev and I would be awaiting trial now. But I knew—and they knew I knew—that they’d been set up and manipulated by a pro. Only Smiley got full marks on this one, and I was the one person who really appreciated the full story there. I felt two other unseen guests, Inspector Roderick Alleyn and his lovely wife, Agatha Troy. I raised my glass to Alleyn for his advice: Look to the theater.

After the soup course—while the signora was serving her superb homemade spinach fettuccine with a light tomato
sauce and a dusting of fresh Parmesan—Castellano said, “I know we agreed not to talk about the case tonight, but I would like everyone to know that through some excellent work by Officer Dekker we were able to track down Brent Derringer and Tom Kovacs. They’ve been arrested for their part in the scam at Summerlea and, not surprisingly, they’ve also rolled over on Lucas, whom they knew as Ward Lucasky. Looks like they all met in New York, off-off Broadway, unless we need another “off” or two. All of them were less-than-successful actors, willing to take a chance to make a few bucks. Now they’re accessories to murder. I call that a happy ending.”

Everyone either chuckled or applauded at this.

Across the table I made eye contact with Larraine. A small smile played around her lips. I winked at her, and she raised her wineglass and gave me a wonderful, mysterious smile. I planned to do something nice for her. She seemed to be enjoying her dinner here at Van Alst House. She’d earned it, as she’d been the key to finding the bad guys. I’d always be grateful, and I was glad to have her as a friend. I looked forward to some theater excursions with her in the future. Doug was mercifully silent, a tribute to those cocktails.

The dinner was a triumph for the signora. Everyone ate with enthusiasm. She does love that. After the pasta, the turkey scaloppine was a masterpiece with that perfect lemon and parsley sauce. How she’d managed to make risotto while pulling off the rest of it was beyond me. She refused help, no matter how many offers she got. We’re used to that.

I felt a rush of happiness, and not just because I knew there was tiramisu for dessert.

*   *   *

I STOOD ON the broad front porch of Van Alst House, enjoying a peek at the new moon. Smiley stood beside me. Walter danced around us happily.

We watched the twinkling taillights as Lance and Sammy Vincovic, Uncle Mick, Uncle Lucky and Karen, the Gormans, Castellano and Stoddard left.

“Nice detective work, Officer Dekker.”

Even in the dim light, I knew he flushed. He squeezed my hand. “Next time, I’ll do better.”

“With luck, there won’t be a next time with a murder involved,” I said, squeezing back.

“I have something to tell you.”

I turned to him.

“We can’t go on like this.”

My happiness evaporated. I yanked my hand back.

He kept talking. “Hear me out. I’m not breaking up with you. But we have to face it, my job and your family connections are always going to be an issue here in Harrison Falls.”

I wasn’t planning on leaving. Did that mean he was?

He said, “I’ve been offered a position as a detective in Cabot. Just got the offer tonight.”

“You’ll be a detective? That’s what you’ve wanted. But when did you apply?”

“About a month ago. Before all this started. I was waiting until I heard to tell you, and then all hell broke loose. I want us to be able to be together without worrying about conflict of interest and pretending to break up with you whenever you or one of your relatives . . .”

I knew what he meant.

“I don’t know anyone in Cabot. It’s what . . . a half hour from here?”

“About that. It’s in the next county and an easy drive in either direction.”

“That could work.”

He grinned. “Maybe. You have any uncles there?”

“No connection with the town of Cabot at all.”

“That should seal the deal.”

I felt a thrill of hope. “Castellano is going to be—”

“Yup. She’s got plans for me, and tomorrow will not be a good day. But I only need to give two weeks’ notice, and she did say there would be no detective position for me here.”

“When do you start?”

“A month from today. I need to put my house on the market, and I have some vacation to use up.”

He pulled some papers from his pocket.

“What’s this?” I said.

“Tickets.”

“Tickets for what? A play?”

“A trip together. Our first vacation.”

“But where?”

“Somewhere I know you’d love to visit with me.”

“Somewhere romantic?”

“You bet.” The man was becoming a tease.

“Let me see.”

Laughing, I reached for the tickets, just as Vera opened the door.

Tiramisu means “pick-me-up” in Italian, and it sure does the trick. As she adapts or invents many of her recipes, Signora Panetone’s tiramisu doesn’t contain ladyfingers or custard, or eggs. Instead, chocolate cake and lots of mascarpone cheese form the base. Tiramisu sure does pick up the mood around Van Alst House. There’s never any left, so you will have to make your own.

8 ounces plain chocolate cake (homemade or purchased)

¼ cup very strong, fresh, hot coffee

¼ cup good-quality DARK rum

1 cup whipping cream

½ cup sugar

1 tsp real vanilla extract

1 cup mascarpone cheese, room temperature

Grated zest of ½ orange (optional)

½ cup coarsely grated bittersweet chocolate

Cut cake into slices. Place the slices in a shallow dish—only one layer. Combine coffee and rum. Sprinkle over the cake.

Whip cream, sugar and vanilla until stiff peaks form.

In a separate bowl beat mascarpone until softened. Fold in the whipped cream, gently. Do not overbeat.

Arrange ⅓ of the cake slices in an attractive, shallow bowl. Layer over ⅓ of the cream mixture and ⅓ of the orange zest (if using). Sprinkle ⅓ of the grated chocolate evenly over the layer.

Repeat for two more layers, ending with a lovely dusting of chocolate on top.

Cover with plastic wrap. This dessert is best the next day, but make sure you chill for at least four hours.

The signora never wastes anything, even bread. That’s a good thing, because slices of baguette (or slices of leftover ciabatta bread) turn into these crispy snack breads.

4 rosemary sprigs

½ cup good olive oil

Slices of baguette or ciabatta bread (about a half loaf)

Sea salt

Add the rosemary sprigs to the olive oil well in advance. The day before is better. Of course, the signora has oil with herbs in her cupboard all the time. You might consider this too as it amps up many dishes and salad dressings.

Preheat oven to 350°F.

Place sliced bread on a metal baking sheet and brush both sides of bread with rosemary oil. Bake for about 10 minutes until brown.

Turn slices over. Sprinkle sea salt lightly on top.

Bake for another 10 minutes.

Cool and enjoy. You can top with salsa, white bean dip, cheese or whatever your favorite topping or dip is. Jordan likes to eat the crostini as is, and Uncle Kev steals them right out of the oven. We do not recommend that.

Everyone loves it when the signora serves these tender and delicious chicken cutlets.

6 small boneless chicken breasts (or turkey)

3 tablespoons flour

1½ tablespoons olive oil

3 tablespoons finely chopped fresh parsley

Juice and grated zest of one large lemon

2–3 tablespoons dry white wine

Sea salt and freshly ground peppers

Extra parsley, lemon wedges or zest for garnish

If chicken pieces are large, cut in half. If they are thick, slice them in half. It is very important to make sure they are thin enough. Cover each piece of poultry with a sheet of plastic wrap. Pound the scaloppine with a mallet or a cup or a rolling pin until they are ¼ inch thick. This is pretty easy but also essential.

Coat with flour and shake off excess.

Heat two tablespoons of oil in the pan. Sear the chicken quickly on both sides, and then sprinkle with parsley, lemon juice and zest and white wine. Add remaining oil if needed.

Lower the heat and cook for about five minutes. Turn chicken over again. Season with S & P and cook for about five minutes until just cooked through.

Serve at once with lemon and parsley as garnish. They are great with rice, potatoes or
pasta.

Turn the page for a preview of Victoria Abbott’s next Book Collector Mystery

THE HAMMETT HEX

Coming soon from Berkley Prime
Crime!

S
QUISHED INTO A cable car, hurtling down a steep hill, clinging to a rail with the wind rushing in your ears amid the clang and clatter of metal and the shrieks of fellow passengers might not be everybody’s idea of a romantic moment, but, strangely, it was working for me. Sure, my knuckles were white, but I was happy because I was wedged up against Tyler “Smiley” Dekker, the occasional man of my dreams. Plus the cable car we were riding gave us a view of San Francisco Bay. The half-dozen squealing schoolgirls—black asymmetrical haircuts, shredded jeans and selfie sticks—couldn’t diminish the experience.

After all, you’re only young and pink-tipped once. One of them rolled her eyes at me.

I had also managed to tune out the puffy, bickering couple next to us. Who knew that you could sustain a twenty-minute dispute about the flavor of gelato? Chocolate hazelnut or
nocciola
? Obviously these two would never run out of things to fight about, and yet they’d miraculously agreed to the same 49ers T-shirt.

We’d bumped into them before on the tourist walks in the area near Union Station. They always had plenty to argue with each other about.

The hulking guy right behind me was a bit harder to ignore. His large, pink, moon face was damp with sweat and his short-sleeved, blue-checked shirt strained at the buttons. He had clearly forgotten his deodorant this morning. Worse, he didn’t appear to comprehend the idea of personal space.

Smiley turned and flashed his grin. I loved that little gap between his front teeth and the way his blond hair blew in the wind. I loved that we were here in this romantic city. I loved that I could still make him blush.

Two silver-haired ladies wearing Birkenstock sandals and Tilley hats nudged each other and smiled at us in approval. I recognized them from our hotel. I’d noticed their bright toenail polish in the lineup at the restaurant in the morning. Even though I was a bit jealous that they’d found seats on the cable car, I smiled back at them.

They each gave us a little wave as they eased their way to the exit behind me.

All the world loves a lover, as they say. Loves a lover! Imagine that. Smiley and I had taken a few sharp detours in our relationship. It was still hard to believe that we were on a getaway alone without hot-and-cold-running relatives and the persistent, gravelly voice of my employer, Vera Van Alst. Could a cop with ambitions to be a detective and a girl who was the first person in her family to go legit have a chance at happiness?

So far, it was looking good.

“Powell Street,” Smiley mouthed. He had a thing for Dashiell Hammett, and Powell Street was important to him too. He mentioned the name every few minutes. He had also mentioned something to do with Sam Spade every few minutes of our cable car ride. As far as I could see, he’d watched
The Maltese Falcon
once too often as a child. It seemed that his grandfather was to blame. I knew all about fascinations
with fictional characters and settings. So I got that. But I had just discovered this classic noir detective and I was reserving judgment about Hammett and his gang.

Today, Smiley was also busy taking pictures. I was equally busy hanging on to my gray fedora because of the bouncy ride and the stiff breeze. That fedora had been the perfect vintage find and just right for San Francisco. It was sort of inspired by Sam Spade (see reserving judgement, above), but mainly I wore it because the foggy, damp air turned my midlength, dark hair into wild frizz. It was either the fedora or a brown paper bag.

It was our third trip on this particular line. We had three-day visitor passports and Smiley wanted us to get our twenty bucks’ worth on every form of transportation.

Most of the day’s itinerary focussed on exploring the haunts of Sam Spade. Smiley had a strong desire to visit Burrett Alley, off Stockton, where there was supposed to be a sign commemorating the shooting of Miles Archer in
The Maltese Falcon
. Pulp and noir were not my things and, to tell the truth, I’d been a bit surprised that Smiley was such an aficionado. I preferred the gentlemen of the Golden Age of Detection and, of course, anything with Archie Goodwin in it. But if he wanted to see that memorial to a fictional murder, I was fine with it as long as I could keep my hat on.

Smiley had managed to turn full circle as we proceeded down the next block. There couldn’t be a building he hadn’t captured for posterity. There were plenty of shots of me too. That was fine as my hair was covered and I had lots to smile about.

“Seafood tonight?” he shouted, suddenly serious.

Well, how about that? I had something else to smile about. “We’re in the right city for it.”

My response was lost in the racket.

We shuddered to a stop again and people pushed onto the cable car. I tried not to get separated from Smiley as people squeezed their way into the car and a short, bullet-shaped
man with crisply gelled black hair attempted to shoulder his way between us. The cable car lurched forward. I steadied myself by grabbing Smiley’s belt with one hand. I held on to my hat with the other. “Sorry,” I said to the bullet-shaped man who seemed determined to take up more space.

I guess I’d been in the friendly, civil society of Harrison Falls, in upstate New York, for a bit too long. I wasn’t used to jockeying for position in confined spaces.

Bullet man flashed me a bleak look and eased behind me. Good. Let him experience the big stinky guy firsthand.

Smiley was pointing now, his enthusiastic words carried away on the wind. No question about it. He was adorable. And he wasn’t the first person to develop a fascination with Sam Spade or the Continental Op. I’d get my turn too. I couldn’t wait to get to Haight-Ashbury and its vintage stores.

As I reached for the airborne fedora, I felt something slam hard into my back, knocking the breath out of me. I lost hold of Smiley as I tumbled forward. When I managed to steady myself, a second sharp slam accelerated my fall. Panicked, I tried to grab at nearby passengers, but too little too late. With a roar of shouting voices behind me, I plunged, screaming wordlessly, from the lumbering cable car toward the pavement, my head set to meet Powell Street the hard way.

But I’m getting ahead of my story.

Let me start at the
beginning.