Penne Dreadful Page 2

  “I thought he parked in the garage adjacent to their building. Isn’t that for employees only? Plus, there are cameras on every floor.”

  I nodded, racking my brain. “He had eaten lunch right before it happened. You were the one who told me his car was parked in the alley behind Slice before he…died.” It still hurt to say the word. There was such finality attached, and I suddenly felt as if I was reliving that day once again.

  Gino had been the one to come to my house to deliver the news. I was grateful it hadn’t come from a stranger but had immediately gone into shock. Slowly, the memories returned, and then I recalled Gino mentioning Slice Pizzeria, the restaurant that Dylan constantly frequented.

  A light bulb switched on in my head. “Do you think that someone at Slice would know anything?”

  Slice was a small restaurant situated at the end of the main street in Harvest Park and owned by New York City native Anthony Falducci. I’d met him a couple of times when Dylan had brought me there for pizza. The building was a bit of an eyesore from the outside. It needed a new roof, and the brown paint was peeling in various spots. The surface of the blacktop in the adjacent parking lot was cracked in several places. Regardless, it was still a staple in the community and served mouthwatering pizza with a variety of delicious toppings.

  “It’s possible.” Gino was silent for a second. “Actually, that’s another reason why I wanted to come talk to you. I had a chat with Anthony, but he didn’t have much to offer. I’ve been trying to get a line on his restaurant but can’t find anything. I’m suspicious though. Slice may be the only place where someone could have had access to Dylan’s vehicle that day. You guys have a two-car garage, and it would be difficult for someone to tamper with the vehicle at his office building.”

  I nodded but kept my thoughts to myself. If I could track all of Dylan’s activities in his last few days, maybe it would lead me to whoever had killed him.

  Gino went on. “Anthony seems golden. He got a speeding ticket a couple of years back, but other than that, he’s clean. The guy’s been a pillar of the community for almost two decades. His brother Vince recently started working at Slice, and his daughter helps out when needed.”

  It was well known in Harvest Park that Anthony donated to several organizations every year. On Christmas Day, the restaurant was open to anyone in need of a free meal, no questions asked. When word spread of Dylan’s accident, Anthony had taken the news hard. I vividly remembered the tears in his eyes during Dylan’s wake.

  “Dylan spent a lot of time there.”

  “He did. Especially lately.” Gino raised his eyebrows pointedly.

  I bristled. “What does that mean? Why is it a big deal that he liked to go there for lunch? Dylan did Anthony’s monthly taxes, so obviously, they were close.”

  “It’s just another angle to check out,” Gino replied. “All I’m saying is maybe there’s a connection.”

  I swallowed hard and locked eyes with my cousin. “Tell me one thing. Are you positive Dylan’s death was no accident?”

  I could always tell when Gino was lying. I remembered one especially frigid winter day when he and Tommy Harper were twelve and they pelted Gabby and me with snowballs while we waited for the school bus and then tried to pin it on someone else. His mother had seen through his lie as well. Policemen were trained to have unreadable faces, but this was my cousin. I could always see through the mask he wore.

  His voice was sober. “No, it wasn’t an accident, Tess. I’m so sorry.”

  I bit into my lower lip as tears flooded my eyes. “Then I want to know who did this.” Someone had ended Dylan’s life and destroyed mine in the process. They needed to pay.

  Gino stroked his clean-shaven chin in a pensive manner. “I knew you would feel this way.” He hesitated for a moment. “If you really want to find who did it, you may be able to help us.”

  “Anything. What’d you have in mind?”

  “There’s a Help Wanted sign on the front window of Slice.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “They need a cook.”

  If Gino had wanted to light a fire under my butt, he’d succeeded. I squared my shoulders, prepared to do battle. “Well, it looks like I’m going on a job interview today.”

  Two

  “Hold on a second,” Gino said. “For the record, I knew you’d want to do this. Hell, I want to know the truth too. But there’s no rush. Think on it for a few days before you make a decision, okay?”

  I ignored him and walked into the kitchen to remove my stainless-steel pot from the stove, placing it in the sink to soak. “Forget it. The job could be filled by then. Do you think Anthony will hire me?”

  “Why wouldn’t he?” Gino asked. “You’re a fantastic cook. Everyone in town knows that. You could get back to what you’re meant to do and help the police department at the same time. A win-win situation.”

  “All right, you’ve already convinced me. If I can take down the guys who killed—”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Whoa. Easy there, cowboy. You’re not taking down anybody. I just want you to keep your ears open and find me a legal reason to get a warrant to search the place. If there is a reason. Got it?”

  I nodded, but he wasn’t finished. Gino frowned at me and started using his cop voice again.

  “Don’t do anything but listen when people are talking. That means don’t ask questions, don’t search through drawers and other places you have no right to. And please, don’t give them a reason to believe you suspect Dylan’s death was anything but a car accident. I want you cooking—it’s what you were meant to do. Also listening, but mostly cooking.”

  “Oh-kay. I’ll be a fly on the wall, minding my own business and making pizzas. If they hire me.”

  He crossed the room and stared out the front window. “When I came in I noticed one of your tires might be a little low on air. Want me to check it for you when I leave?”

  “Sure.” I was grateful for the attention. With Dylan gone, auto maintenance was an item on my to-do list that never seemed to get done. “So, when did you see the sign last? They may have already hired someone.”

  “I doubt it. It was there this morning,” Gino replied. “I drive by there a couple of times every day. Did Dylan ever mention that there was anyone at the restaurant who didn’t like him?”

  “No. He talked about Anthony, and we went there for pizza a couple of times. I kind of had a feeling that Dylan didn’t like to bring me there.”

  “Why not?”

  I shrugged. “It was his hangout, not mine. Maybe he thought I’d go in and criticize the place.”

  “You, criticize a kitchen? It could never happen.”

  “Very funny.” Maybe Slice wasn’t my ideal restaurant, but a little bit of money and creativity could work wonders for the place. I let myself ponder the possibilities for a moment, recreating the dream restaurant I had built in my head so many times before Dylan had died. If I owned Slice, the first thing I’d do would be to take out all those awful orange booths and replace them with square oak tables and matching chairs. It would be a family-type restaurant, but with an air of elegance. A place where you would feel comfortable enough to bring your three-year-old child or your eighty-year-old grandmother. Family was important to Harvest Park’s close-knit community, and I certainly wouldn’t have made it through the last month without mine.

  * * *

  An hour later I had pulled into a parking spot outside of Slice, taking note of the crooked Help Wanted sign in the window with an exhale of relief. I climbed the two steps of the small cement porch and was about to push open the front door when a teenage boy exited the building in a flurry, the corner of the pizza box he held poking me as he brushed by.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am.” He flushed slightly and, with an apologetic look, hurried down the steps, not waiting for my response.

  As I stepped through the doorw
ay, I took in the familiar surroundings. The room for restaurant seating was directly in front of me, with the service counter and kitchen in the back. A tall man came out from behind the orange Formica-topped checkout counter and stared over my head and out the door, clearly annoyed. “Sorry about that, miss. Sam knows he’s supposed to use the kitchen door for deliveries. Kids. You can’t teach them anything these days.” He was over six feet tall and extremely good-looking with a mess of curly, black hair that poked out from underneath a Yankees ball cap he wore backward on his head.

  I followed him back to the service counter. Still irritated, he punched some numbers into the register, opened the drawer, and glanced up at me. “Are you here to pick up?”

  I shook my head. “My name is Tessa. I’d like to see Anthony, if he has a minute.”

  He smiled at me, his eyes dark and warm, like freshly roasted coffee beans in the morning. “Sure thing.” The man turned away from the counter and walked through the open prep area, then stopped in the doorway of an adjoining room in the back of the kitchen and stuck his head in. “There’s a woman named Tessa here who wants to see you.”

  As I waited for Anthony, I took a moment to study my surroundings. I hadn’t been inside Slice for several months, and the place looked shabbier than I remembered. A black phone, a cash register, and a plastic container holding laminated menus occupied the counter of the checkout station. Behind this area was the open-concept kitchen featuring a granite work surface to the right sprinkled with flour, probably used for prepping dough. Next to it was a large metal prep table that held a variety of pizza toppings inside. The wall oven ran behind it, and farther down on the same side of the kitchen was the doorway the tall man had disappeared into, Anthony’s office, where Dylan had brought me to meet him before.

  On the left side of the room was a refrigerator, two bay sinks, a dishwasher, a six-burner gas stove, and a black utility storage cabinet. The doors were shut, but I assumed they held ingredients such as flour, sugar, canned tomato paste, and oregano. Empty pizza boxes were stacked on top of the cabinet and on a small metal table next to it. There was a steel door on the other side of the table that most likely led to a cooler or freezer—maybe both. The once-white walls had yellowed, no doubt from grease, and the entire room was in serious need of organization. It wasn’t my ideal kitchen, but then again, I wasn’t here for the ambience.

  The good-looking guy came back and leaned his muscular arms over the counter. I studied the intimidating tattoo of a scorpion on his left bicep. “I’m Vince, Anthony’s brother. His much younger brother.” His eyes scanned me up and down, and he gave me a sly wink.

  Surprised, I took a step back.

  He ran a hand over the scruff of a beard forming around his sensual looking lips, and his perfect white teeth gleamed against his bronzed complexion. “Why don’t you and I meet up and have a drink together later?”

  “Vincenzo.” Anthony was standing a few feet behind his brother, glaring at him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Anthony Falducci was in his late fifties or early sixties, dressed in a short-sleeved black T-shirt like his brother with a white bib apron tied over it. He came around the counter to where I stood, wiping his hands on his apron. His once-dark-brown hair was now dominated by gray and cut short. He ran a hand through the sparse hair on top of his head as he regarded me.

  Anthony’s brown eyes were set in a round, pink face that broke into a wide grin. “Tessa, how nice to see you.” He nodded at the other man. “Don’t get any ideas. This lady is off-limits.”

  Vince stared at him, his expression puzzled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Her husband was Dylan Esposito. Remember? The guy who—”

  “Oh man.” Vince gave me an apologetic look. “I’m really sorry, miss. I had no idea.”

  “It’s okay,” I reassured him, desperately wishing I was somewhere else.

  The phone rang, and Vince snatched it up in a hurry, as if grateful for the distraction. “Slice. Pick up or delivery?”

  Anthony turned back to me. “What can I do for you?”

  I pointed in the direction of the front door, where the Help Wanted sign hung. “I’m looking for a job.”

  Anthony’s eyes widened. “That’s right. You’re a cook, and a good one too. Dylan said so.” There was an awkward pause, and then he crooked a finger at me. “Follow me, hon.” We walked away from the carryout station into the large dining area where only two booths were in use. A young couple deep in conversation was seated at one, while a woman with three small children occupied another. Anthony motioned toward a booth with red checkered paper place mats on top of the surface. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “No thanks.” Dylan had raved about Anthony’s homemade pizza, although he was always careful to mention it wasn’t as good as mine, reminding me of the old adage—a way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. I’d always kidded my husband that I shouldn’t have prepared dinner for him on our first date. It became a standing joke between us that my chicken parmigiana was what had convinced him to propose.

  The restaurant was fairly clean but had started to show its age. Pieces of the dull tile flooring were broken or loose in several spots. The orange vinyl-covered seat underneath me sported several cracks and a large hole near one of its seams. The overhead light fixtures appeared spotty, and a few of the bulbs had blown out, giving the dining room a depressing and foreboding-like atmosphere. I knew that Slice was primarily a takeout restaurant, so perhaps Anthony didn’t see the point of spending additional funds in the dining area. Still, I could think of a dozen ways to make the place brighter, cheerier, and more appealing to the public. I visualized looped cable lights hanging from the ceiling to echo draped pasta noodles. Red-and-white-checkered linen napkins adorning the spotless wooden table surfaces. Perfection.

  Anthony cleared his throat uncomfortably. “So, the truth, honey. How’ve you really been doing?”

  “Not great.” The words were no lie, and the object was to make Anthony feel sympathetic enough to hire me. Still, I detested pity of any sort. On the day of Dylan’s wake, if I’d had to experience one more person muttering “Sorry for your loss,” I might have screamed out loud. Yes, it was a difficult situation for everyone involved, and what else was there for people to say? But it had been agony to endure all the same.

  Anthony nodded in understanding. “Dylan was a great guy. One of my best customers and a whiz with my taxes. I really miss him.”

  “Me too,” I managed to choke out.

  He reached across the table to pat my hand awkwardly. “This has got to be hell for you. My wife, Luisa, she drives me crazy, but if I didn’t have her around—” His face grew red as he said the words. “Well, you know what I mean. So, what kind of experience do you have cooking?”

  I folded my hands on the table. Fortunately, I didn’t have to lie about this part. “I’ve been cooking since I was ten. I went to college as a business major, then quit after two years to go to culinary school.” My parents had not been happy with that decision, but as far as I was concerned, it was the best one I’d ever made. When I started at the culinary academy, I knew I’d found my niche. “After that I worked as a waitress, then a short order cook.” I didn’t explain that I’d wanted to learn how to do every particular job in a restaurant because my dream had always been to run my own someday. “I started a new job at Sunnyside Up Café three months ago. When Dylan’s accident—” Suddenly, I couldn’t go on.

  Anthony waited patiently. “Take your time. It’s all right.”

  I let out a deep breath. “Sunnyside was a nice place, but I didn’t know when I’d be able to return, and it wasn’t fair to keep them waiting. Besides, my specialty is Italian food. It’s also my favorite to make. Before Sunnyside, I worked as a chef at Magnifico’s Restaurant.”

  He looked impressed. “Wow. That’s a nice
place…er, was. Didn’t they go bankrupt last year?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.” Magnifico’s had been a fancy Italian restaurant, about a half hour’s drive from Harvest Park. I’d worked there for two years and enjoyed the experience, except that the constant competition with other employees, specifically the other two chefs, had been a major turnoff. Everyone was always looking out for number one, while my only desire had been to make the customers happy. It was a family-owned place with people who had no idea how to run a business and all the drama you would expect from that scenario.

  Anthony seemed to regard me with new respect. “Tessa, you probably have more culinary talent than the rest of us here combined. Didn’t your tomato sauce win first prize in some big competition recently?”

  The mention made me flush with pride. “Yes, at the New York State Fair last year.” I’d also won a thousand dollars in prize money but didn’t mention that part. The certificate, framed and on the wall of my kitchen, meant more to me than the cash.

  Anthony pursed his lips. “That’s what I thought. Wow. I need a cook but honestly don’t think I can afford you.”

  “It’s not about the money.” Also not a lie. “The location is convenient for me, and pizza is one of my favorite dishes to make.”

  “A clever girl like you should be figuring out how to license that fantastic sauce of yours instead. You might be sitting on top of a gold mine, honey.” His eyes lit up. “Have you ever thought about selling your recipe? Didn’t that Neiman Marcus cookie sell for a small fortune?”

  I laughed. “I could care less about the money. The recipe originally belonged to my grandmother before I made a few tweaks. I’d never consider selling it.”

  “Ancient family secret, eh?” Anthony smiled and leaned forward. “I’ll level with you, honey. I’ve been looking for a cook for a couple of weeks now and haven’t had any bites yet. Vince, who you met, is a great cook. He’s actually a sous chef. Trained in New York City. But he doesn’t want to be tied down in the kitchen all day. Vince is a real impatient sort, and he’s used to doing as he pleases. I need someone I can rely on, five days a week.”