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  Books. Change. Lives.

  Copyright © 2019 by Catherine Bruns

  Cover and internal design © 2019 by Sourcebooks

  Cover design by Adrienne Krogh/Sourcebooks

  Cover illustration © Tsukushi/Lott Reps

  Sourcebooks, Poisoned Pen Press, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Poisoned Pen Press, an imprint of Sourcebooks

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  sourcebooks.com

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Never-Fail Pizza Crust and Pepperoni Pizza

  Tessa’s Tantalizing Tomato Sauce

  Good to the Last Bite Stromboli

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  For Frank

  Thank you for believing in me

  One

  The rich aroma from the mixture of tomatoes and onions cooking wafted through the air, hitting my nose with a distinct perfume. It was a soothing smell that blanketed me in its warm hold. If alone, I would have been content to stand in front of my stove all day.

  I stirred the sauce and listened as my cousin Gino Mancusi flipped through the sports section of the newspaper at my breakfast counter and grumbled about his beloved Giants losing again.

  “The season is pretty much over. I actually thought they might get another ring this time.” He sighed and pushed the paper aside. “You shouldn’t have gone to any trouble, Tessa. A sandwich would have been fine.”

  “It’s never any trouble.” I enjoyed watching others sample my creations and had vowed years ago that no one would ever leave my home hungry. Part of this obsession came from my love of cooking, but I attributed the rest to my Italian heritage. Italians are passionate about almost everything in the world, and food is at the top of the list.

  “It’s rare for you to go out for lunch,” I said. Gino was a police detective in our hometown of Harvest Park. “Did Lucy tell you to come over and check up on me? Is it your day? Oh wait, let me grab the calendar.”

  “Stop being a smart aleck.” He left the counter and came into the kitchen to grab ice cubes out of the freezer for his soda. On his way back, he stopped and planted an affectionate kiss on the top of my head. “That’s what family is for, Tess. We’re all worried about you.”

  I squeezed his arm and turned off the burner. “Grab the parmesan cheese out of the fridge, will you? I grated it this morning.”

  Gino nodded without another word. I appreciated all that he and the rest of the family were doing, but I was determined not to start crying again today.

  It was still difficult to talk about my husband’s death, even with loved ones. I’d spent the last five weeks in a trance—or perhaps shock was a better term. Thanks to my mother, cousins, and my friend Justin, I had finally started to come around. Whenever I thought I’d fully recovered though, a kind word or a nice gesture from anyone would make me dissolve into a puddle of tears again.

  Last night, my elderly neighbor Stacia from across the street had brought me a fresh baked apple pie. “I know how much you love them, dear.” She’d beamed at me from underneath a mass of pink foam hair curlers. Apple pie—anything apple, actually—had been Dylan’s favorite, but I didn’t have the heart to tell her so. Instead, I’d cried after she left and then devoured a huge slice.

  Gino placed the cheese on the breakfast counter. He had classic Italian good looks complemented by dark hair, an olive complexion, and brown eyes that could either be sympathetic or suspicious. I suspected that the latter one was a cop thing.

  “Right here at the bar is fine, Tess,” he said. “Don’t bother setting the table. I have to get back to work in a little while anyway.”

  “Okay, it’s all ready.” I ladled the ruby-red sauce onto his plate of penne, inhaling the rich savory smell. It was a little bit like summer, with the sweet fragrance of vine-ripe tomatoes complemented by the minty smell of fresh basil from my garden.

  “It smells great,” Gino said as he sat down. “Then again, I’ve never eaten anything of yours that wasn’t top-notch. You need to give Lucy some pointers.”

  “Lucy’s a good cook. She’s too busy taking care of those devilish twins of yours to do much else. I’ve got a little bit of extra sauce if you want to take some home to her.”

  Gino’s eyes widened as he swallowed a bite of pasta. “A little? Come on, Tess. I saw your extra sauce.” He wiped his mouth on a starched white linen napkin. “When I opened the freezer, there were at least twenty ziplock bags in there. Maybe you’re a bit obsessed with making sauce, huh?”

  Like the rest of my family, Gino’s focus was strictly on how the food tasted. For me, there was more to it. I loved the aromas, the spices, the way preparing food made me feel—relaxed, confident, and in control. I’d been cooking for twenty years, since the tender age of ten. My grandmother, a fabulous cook herself, and I had shared a special bond. Whenever we went to her house, I’d head straight to the kitchen to watch her make dinner, and we’d chat the afternoon away. My love of cooking came from her. On my thirteenth birthday, she gave me a special present—her secret tomato sauce recipe. She passed away when I was sixteen, and I took the recipe and made it my own over the years, with the help of a few special ingredients. Although I could make just about anything, tomato sauce was my passion and specialty, always bringing to mind wonderful memories of our time together.

  “No, I’m not obsessed.” There was silence in the room, except for the clink of Gino’s fork hitting the china plate. He didn’t understand. No o
ne did. My love of cooking also helped soothe the grief of losing my husband, at least temporarily. Dylan had passed away a little over a month ago in a tragic car accident that would probably give me nightmares for the rest of my life.

  This wasn’t supposed to happen to us. We’d been young, in love, and trying to have a baby. Dylan and I were married for almost six wonderful years. Although by no means rich, we’d lived comfortably enough. Dylan had been employed as an accountant for a large healthcare firm, We Care, in Albany. As a certified CPA, he’d prepared taxes privately for several clients outside the firm as well. To add to our modest income, a couple of months before Dylan’s death, I’d begun working as a cook for the Sunnyside Up Café. Back then, my main goal in life—besides starting a family—had been to run my own restaurant someday.

  Dylan had been extremely supportive of my passion. He’d always teased that he couldn’t wait to quit his job and call me “boss,” serving as my maître d’. Kidding aside, I knew he’d been as excited about the venture as I was. Still, we didn’t have anywhere near the funds necessary to make it happen. Since we’d bought the house only two years ago, we’d been trying to put money away every month, but there were times when real life intervened. A new roof and hot water tank had helped derail the savings process for a few months. We remained hopeful that it would happen within the next couple of years.

  Five weeks ago, my dream had been replaced by a nightmare. My new goal in life was to simply make it through a day without crying, and my restaurant ownership dreams had been put aside indefinitely.

  After the accident, I’d asked my mother to call Sunnyside and tell them I wouldn’t be returning. I’d only been there for a few months, and it wasn’t fair to leave them hanging, although they’d been very supportive of my situation.

  Even selling the house had crossed my mind a few times in the last couple of weeks. The first time the real estate agent showed us the light-blue Cape Cod, Dylan and I both instantly fell in love with its charm. Although only about fourteen hundred square feet, it was perfect for us, with its large bay window, hardwood floors, and steepled roof.

  Now, however, it was difficult to stay here alone. There were memories of Dylan everywhere I looked, such as the empty window boxes built into the white shutters where we’d planted annuals together every spring. I missed so many things about him—his deep-throated chuckle, the way he held me in his strong arms on lazy Sunday mornings in bed, and the long walks we’d take, hand in hand, after dinner on picturesque autumn days, much like this one. Early November in Harvest Park, although chilly, was the perfect time of year to watch multicolored leaves fall from the trees.

  The house was an ideal home for a young married couple and even had the classic white picket fence in the backyard. The only things missing were the standard two-point-five kids and dog, which I’d mistakenly thought we had plenty of time for.

  Luigi squawked from the floor and stared up at me expectantly. A spoiled tuxedo kitty, he was looking for his share of lunch too. I cut up a small piece of sausage and set it on a paper plate in front of him.

  “That cat eats better than most people do,” Gino commented. He took another bite of the pasta and groaned with pleasure. “Amazing as always.”

  This was the therapy I needed. “Thanks.”

  He watched me closely as I stood on the other side of the counter. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

  I shrugged and fiddled with the newspaper. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Tess.” His voice was gentle. “Maybe it’s time you went back to work. I’m sure you could get another job as a cook easily enough.”

  I stared down at my hands. “I don’t know. I guess I’m afraid that I might break down in front of someone.” My voice trembled. No, I wasn’t going to do this now. I could—and would—make it through one day without bursting into tears. Dylan wouldn’t have wanted me to carry on like this.

  Gino rose from his chair and walked around the counter. He took my hand and led me into the combination living and dining room. “Come on. I need to talk to you about something.”

  I dropped onto the navy love seat, and Luigi jumped in my lap, curling into a ball on my knees. Gino sat across from me in the matching armchair, a line creasing his broad forehead. “You’re probably going to hate me for telling you this.”

  “What? The sauce was too spicy?” I joked.

  He didn’t laugh. “I should have told you sooner, but you’ve been so upset, I was afraid it might send you over the edge.”

  Now he had my full attention. My stomach twisted at his words. “What’s wrong? Is someone in the family sick? Lucy or one of the twins?” I didn’t think I could handle any more bad news.

  Gino shook his head. “It’s nothing like that.” He exhaled a deep breath. “It’s about Dylan.”

  “What about him?” I asked sharply. “Just say it.”

  He reached forward to cover my hand with his. “We have reason to believe that Dylan’s death wasn’t an accident.”

  My body went rigid. There was no sound in the room except for my heavy breathing and Luigi’s purring as he snuggled against me. “Are you saying that someone intentionally killed my husband?”

  Gino’s mouth formed a thin, hard line. “It looks that way. We believe that somebody tampered with his vehicle.”

  Anger quickly replaced shock. “You said before that it was a car malfunction. How long have you known about this?”

  “A few weeks.”

  “Meaning since his death.” I hated Gino in that moment. For God’s sake, he was family. If you couldn’t depend on your own family to tell you the truth, who could you trust? “So why am I only hearing about this now?”

  “Look, Tess,” he said quietly. “It’s an ongoing investigation. We don’t have all the details, and nothing has been released to the public yet.”

  Startled, I rose to my feet, forcing Luigi to jump down and scamper out of the room. “Who cares about the public? I’m his wife and you’re my cousin! How could you keep this from me?”

  Gino’s face flushed, and he put a hand on my arm. “You were so out of it those first couple of weeks. I was afraid if I told you, then maybe you’d do something crazy, like—”

  “Like what? Take my own life? Join my husband in the hereafter?” I shook his hand off and moved to stand in front of the bay window, looking out at my lawn covered with its gold and orange leaves. “Please leave.”

  But Gino didn’t leave. Instead, he came up behind me and put his hands on my shoulders. As a result, I crumpled. My shoulders started to sag, and the tears I was holding back finally broke free. So much for my new determination.

  He held me in his arms while I cried. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t at liberty to tell you anything at first, and then as time wore on, I was afraid. That’s the real reason I came over. Gabby said you seemed almost like your old self yesterday. She mentioned that you stopped by her store last night for the first time since Dylan died.”

  I straightened up and wiped my eyes. “I brought cookies for her club.” Gabby was Gino’s younger sister and owned a small bookstore, Once Upon a Book, that was three streets over from where I lived in the center of town. She was my dearest friend, the sister I’d never had.

  “Like I said, nothing has been released to the public, but details may have already started to leak.” He looked faintly embarrassed. “I’ve been questioning some people around town, and so has another officer. Unfortunately, he let it slip to someone that the car was tampered with, so it probably won’t be long before the news starts to spread.”

  “I see. In other words, you wanted to make sure you told me before someone else did.” Furious, I almost wanted to slap him.

  Gino wrapped an arm around my waist and led me back to the couch. “That’s not it. I swear that I was going to tell you, but you’re right, I shouldn’t have waited so long.” To his credit, his face was
full of misery. “Should I go on?”

  I inhaled a large gulp of air. “Yes. Tell me everything.”

  He hesitated for a second. “I don’t know everything. As we told you from the beginning, a fuel leak was the cause. But it looks like someone tampered with his engine by loosening a fitting, which caused the car to catch fire. Passersby reported seeing flames shoot out from under the vehicle right before Dylan crashed.”

  “Okay, stop.” I had lied. I didn’t want to hear that part again—not about how my husband had been trapped in a burning car before crashing into a tree. He’d already been dead when the EMTs had pulled him from the wreckage, but I would always wonder what suffering he might have endured in those final moments.

  Gino held tightly to my hand. “I did some checking around. Dylan always brought his vehicle to the Car Doctor, right? Matt Smitty wasn’t around the day before when Dylan brought the car in, but his mechanic Earl said they only did a tire rotation. He swore he didn’t touch the engine.” Gino paused, weighing his words before continuing. “You know that Smitty’s not one of my favorite people.”

  I didn’t want to get into this now. Matt had been my high school boyfriend. I’d broken up with him after he became too possessive, and Gino had never liked him. “But…” The words refused to fall from my mouth. I paused for a second and tried to get my bearings. “That can’t be right. Why would someone want Dylan dead?” The thought was incomprehensible.

  Gino replied to my question with one of his own. “Did Dylan have any enemies?”

  I gave him what I hoped was an incredulous look. “How can you ask me such a thing? Everybody loved him.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Gino’s tone was suspicious. He was using his cop voice, as Gabby called it. “Maybe he screwed up someone’s taxes? Reported someone to the IRS for doing something illegal? Did a coworker have it in for him?”

  “No. No one I can think of.” But Gino had planted a seed of doubt in my head. Maybe there was a disgruntled client Dylan hadn’t told me about. “Did someone tamper with his car while he was at We Care? Have you checked out his office?”