It Cannoli Be Murder Read online

  Also by Catherine Bruns

  Italian Chef Mysteries

  Penne Dreadful

  Cookies & Chance Mysteries

  Tastes Like Murder

  Baked to Death

  Burned to a Crisp

  Frosted with Revenge

  Silenced by Sugar

  Crumbled to Pieces

  Sprinkled in Malice

  Ginger Snapped to Death

  Icing on the Casket

  Cindy York Mysteries

  Killer Transaction

  Priced to Kill

  For Sale by Killer

  Aloha Lagoon Mysteries

  Death of the Big Kahuna

  Death of the Kona Man

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  Books. Change. Lives.

  Copyright © 2020 by Catherine Bruns

  Cover and internal design © 2020 by Sourcebooks

  Cover design by Adrienne Krogh/Sourcebooks

  Cover image © Tsukushi/Lott Reps

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

  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

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.

  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

  Recipes

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  To my father, from whom I get my love of Italian food. You are always missed.

  One

  Rain drummed pleasantly on the roof while I diced and sliced tomatoes with my serrated knife on the cutting board before me. Satisfied that I had chopped enough, I lowered the tantalizing red vegetables into the stainless-steel pot and added spices. There was no need to measure—I knew by sight how much was necessary. Three pinches of garlic powder. Two shakes of pepper. A handful of dried basil. Fortunately, the herbs from Spice and Nice’s store in town were always fresh and perfectly accentuated my entrées.

  Making tomato sauce was nothing new to me. As a trained chef, I’d been doing it for more than twenty years, practically at the knee of my talented grandmother, who’d created the original recipe that I’d tweaked over time. I took pride in the fact that it was an award-winning creation, voted number one at the New York State Fair a couple of summers back.

  But this time, it was different. The fact that I was making sauce in my own restaurant was not lost on me. A tingle of excitement ran through my body as my wooden spoon went around the inside of the pot, and I inhaled the warm, rich, wonderful smell. I smiled at my surroundings with satisfaction.

  My restaurant. I was the one in charge. I called all the shots. It was thrilling to be in control, but also a bit terrifying. In eight short days, I would throw open the front doors of my Italian restaurant, the first of its kind in our town, for the public eye. Given all that had happened in the past six months, this was nothing short of a miracle, and also a dream come true.

  The front door opened, and a familiar female voice floated through the walls.

  “Tess? You in the kitchen?”

  “Where else would I be?” I called out grandly while stooping to adjust the burner.

  My cousin Gabby appeared in the doorway. She was wearing a yellow, hooded slicker reminiscent of the Morton Salt Girl, but that was where the similarities ended. With her curvy figure and enormous dark eyes, Gabby could turn the head of any man in Harvest Park.

  Gabby held a cardboard tray that contained two Java Time cups and a white bakery bag. In her other hand was a lumpy package. She sniffed the air and grinned. “Ah. It always smells so good when you make your sauce. But the restaurant’s not even open yet, and I’m guessing that new freezer of yours is already piled high with enough to last through the summer. And it’s only the end of April!”

  I laughed and gave the sauce another quick stir before placing the lid on the pot. Gabby held out a cup to me and I took it gratefully. “Archie’s famous dark roast. How’d you know I needed a caffeine fix?”

  “Because I know you.” Gabby hung her slicker on one of the metal hooks next to the door that led to the alley and took a moment to fluff her short, dark hair. “Tess, you’re pushing yourself too hard. For someone who cooks all the time, you never seem to eat. You look like you’ve lost weight, so this should help.” She handed me the bakery bag. “I stopped by Carlita’s and picked up some apple fritters.”

  My mouth watered. I was hungry, but oddly enough, I rarely ate when I cooked, except for a sample taste here or there. Many chefs were like that. I laid the bag down on the new Formica countertops I’d recently had installed and reached inside, then took a large bite from the pastry. It was still warm, and I let out a moan as the taste of cinnamon and apples burst inside my mouth. “So good. You’re right, I haven’t eaten yet today. No time.”

  She wagged a finger in my face. “How are you going to keep up your strength to run a business if you don’t take good care of yourself?”

  “Have you been taking lessons from my mother?” I teased. “She’d be saying the same thing if she weren’t out of town with your mom.”

  Gabby cocked an eyebrow. “Yeah, I can do a pretty good imitation of Aunt Fran, but all kidding aside, you should take a night off while you can. Your life is about to change big time.”

  She was right, of course, but I didn’t mind. In fact, I welcomed the change. The restaurant had helped keep my mind busy over the winter and off other matters, specifically my husband’s untimely death.

  “I’m excited and nervous at the same time. You know what it’s like—starting your own business. The dream is about to become a reality.” I recalled v
ividly when Gabby had opened her store, Once Upon a Book, a cozy little bookstore that was her pride and joy. A flurry of anticipation soared through me. It was my turn now.

  “Oh my gosh, yes,” Gabby groaned. “I had the most awful butterflies for weeks. And now I’m having them again because of the signing tomorrow night. Tess, I’ve never had a bestseller in my store before. This is a huge deal. The waiting is killing me, so I decided to come bug you for a while.”

  “Well, I’m glad that you did.”

  Gabby’s presence was always welcome. Even if we’d been born sisters, we couldn’t have been any closer. I knew that Gabby had had a tough time getting her business off the ground. The bookstore had had its share of ups and downs but was now entering its second year and holding its own, or so I thought.

  I went back to the stove to check on my sauce. When I took possession of the building in January, I knew it would take a good deal of money to remodel the restaurant how I’d always envisioned it. For starters, the roof had to be replaced, but thankfully, my landlord, Vince Falducci, had paid for that. The flooring and walk-in freezer, however, had come out of my own pocket. If things went well, I did plan to buy the building within the next year, and Vince had said he would deduct those costs from the sale. But if the restaurant soured, I’d be forced to return to employment in someone else’s kitchen.

  “Oh, I almost forgot.” Gabby held out the lumpy package to me. “A little thank you gift.”

  Mystified, I grabbed it from her outstretched hands. “Thank you for what?”

  She shot me a look of disbelief. “Are you kidding me? You’ve been crazy busy but are still going out of your way to make goodies for my book signing tomorrow night. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”

  “Oh, Gabs. This is fabulous!” It was a beige straw mat for the restaurant’s front porch with a border of tomatoes around the words WELCOME TO ANYTHING’S PASTABLE. That was the name I’d chosen for my restaurant months ago, even before I’d signed the papers. Everyone had thought it was cute and especially fitting, given the blows life had dealt me lately. They didn’t know I had another reason for the name as well.

  “It’s beautiful.” I wrapped my arms around Gabby’s thin shoulders and gave her a squeeze. When we moved apart, I noticed that her lips were pinched tightly together. “Something’s bothering you. Come on, out with it.”

  She stared at me with concern in her eyes. “Tess, so much is riding on this book signing. Sales have been way down lately. If they don’t improve soon, I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

  This was an unwelcome surprise. I knew Gabby barely broke even some months but had no idea that the store was doing so poorly. Gabby was too proud to ask for help, even from family. Still, I was ashamed I hadn’t figured it out for myself. I’d been wrapped up in the restaurant lately with little time to think about anything else.

  “But the signing should fix everything, right? I mean, this is Preston we’re talking about.” Preston Rigotta was a number one New York Times bestselling author who lived about a half hour away from our picturesque little town, in the elite Saratoga region of Upstate New York. He wrote suspense novels that critics called riveting, and unputdownable page turners. Gabby had devoured all of them, while I’d read none. She’d idolized the man for years, and when it came to favorite authors, Stephen King was the only one who eclipsed Preston in her mind.

  So, when Gabby had discovered Preston had a new book coming out, she’d taken the bull by the horns and sent an impromptu message to his website, asking if he’d consider doing a signing at her store. She’d almost fallen through the floor when his daughter, Willow, who managed the site, had responded and invited her to come to their house and meet Preston in person.

  “It’s going to be the social event of the year,” I assured her. “Do you know how many people are coming? I want to make sure I have enough treats.”

  Gabby fiddled with the lid on her cup. “I’ve asked people to RSVP, via the store’s Facebook page or in person to me, but it’s still difficult to say. Maybe between fifty and seventy-five? And I can’t afford to turn away walk-ins. If I run out of books, I can always ship them out to people or have them picked up at the store later.”

  “He must have many tour dates scheduled since he’s so popular,” I commented.

  She shook her head. “Not Preston. He has a few signings listed on his website, including my store, but most are within New York State. He doesn’t need to trot all over the globe. His books sell themselves.”

  Gabby was a true fangirl, and I hoped it paid off for her. “Well, never fear. I’ll make sure the food is covered. I’m going to bake all the sweets tomorrow morning so they’re fresh. You said that cannoli were Preston’s favorite, right?”

  She nodded. “He told me that his entire family loves them. Say, can you make biscotti, too? Your chocolate is really yummy. I feel bad for asking, but I’m paying for your time and the ingredients, so please don’t argue with me.”

  “Forget it. This is my treat.”

  “Come on,” she implored. “I’m not about to take advantage. You’ve got your own business to worry about.” She glanced around the room and beamed. “It looks so different in here. Dylan would be so proud of the restaurant—and you.”

  “He would be proud,” I agreed. “Dylan shared my vision for this place.” It had been six months since my husband was killed in a fiery car crash. A few weeks after his death I’d discovered from my cousin Gino, a detective on the local police force and also Gabby’s brother, that his death hadn’t been an accident. Dylan’s car had deliberately been tampered with. After the shock wore off, I’d embarked on my own quest to find his killer and, with Gabby and Gino’s help, had succeeded. The person was now behind bars and I’d gotten justice for my husband, but that wouldn’t bring him back.

  I tried to steer the conversation back to the restaurant itself. “I wish this place didn’t feel like a money pit some days.” It was the biggest gamble I’d ever taken in my thirty years because I couldn’t be positive about how the place would fare. The building came with a sordid reputation, which didn’t help. It had previously been called Slice, a pizza parlor fronting as a cover-up for some shady dealings.

  Gabby was counting on her fingers. “So, we have cannoli—your vanilla crème ones decorated with chocolate chips, right? And chocolate biscotti?”

  I waved a hand in dismissal. “Forget the chocolate biscotti. I have a recipe for cinnamon-chip-flavored ones I’ll use instead.” It had belonged to my maternal grandmother, the one whom I’d gotten my love of cooking from. “It’s fabulous. The biscotti melt in your mouth. I’ll make a batch of them. But I have to ask…why didn’t you go to Carlita’s for the cannoli? Hers are awesome.”

  Carlita Garcia owned Sweet Treats, the bakery next door to Gabby’s shop, where the fritters had come from. She was a warm, wonderful woman who was also notorious for having the inside scoop on all of Harvest Park’s gossip.

  Gabby gave a sly wink. “When it comes to food, I’m always going to ask you first, Tess. I know dessert isn’t your first love, but there’s nothing you can’t make. Besides, I thought it would be a good opportunity for you to pass out some of your business cards for the restaurant.”

  “I do like the way you think.” I removed the pot of sauce from the burner. “Did you check out the dining room on your way in? Things have changed quite a bit since you were in here last.”

  She shook her head. “I was too busy trying to shake all the raindrops off. How about a tour, Julia Child?”

  Gabby always knew the right thing to say. While Preston might be her idol, Julia was tops in my book. We walked out of the kitchen and into the main dining room, which Gabby had passed through on her way to the kitchen, located in the back of the building.

  “How’s Lou? I haven’t seen him in a while.”

  Louis Sawyer, or Lou as everyone calle
d him, was Gabby’s boyfriend of five months and a member of the town’s police force, along with Gino. Gino hadn’t been particularly happy about the two of them dating but finally seemed to be accepting it.

  “I haven’t seen him all week either,” Gabby confessed. “I’ve been crazy busy with Liza on vacation this week. It’s not ideal to hold the signing tomorrow night with her out of town, but what else am I supposed to do? Preston picked the date he wanted and that’s that. Wow, Tess.” She glanced around the room in awe. “It doesn’t even look like the same place.”

  “That’s what I was hoping you’d say.” Her remark gave me immense satisfaction. I’d worked at Slice for a brief time last fall and, despite the poor conditions, had seen the possibilities before me. My one regret was that my husband hadn’t lived to see it, too.

  My life had been incredibly lonely since Dylan’s death. We hadn’t gotten around to having children yet, and my only companion in our blue Cape Cod–style house was Luigi, our tuxedo cat, who did his best to keep me amused. It had helped immensely to have the remodeling project to keep my mind focused on other things—besides Dylan—during the long and dreary winter. This restaurant was my labor of love to him, and I could see his support in each remodel I made. Now, when patrons entered the main dining room from the front door, there was a hostess station directly to their right where I pictured Dylan greeting guests with a warm smile, guiding them to the built-in wooden bench to wait for available tables.

  The orange plastic booths and cheap tables that had previously dominated the dining room were long gone and had been replaced with square oak tables and matching chairs. There were fourteen in all, meaning I could accommodate fifty-six people at once. New Pergo flooring gleamed under our feet while looped cable lights hung from the beamed ceilings, echoing draped pasta noodles. The paneled walls were adorned with black-and-white photos my mother and father had snapped thirty-five years ago on their honeymoon in Italy—classic sites like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, Trevi Fountain, and the Coliseum.

  I’d also added a collage of photos on one wall of the people nearest and dearest to me. There was a picture of Dylan and me on our wedding day, Gabby in front of the bookstore during her grand opening, a photo of my parents with me shortly after my birth, and one of Gino and his wife, Lucy, with their twins.