From Mangia to Murder (A Sophia Mancini ~ Little Italy Mystery) (3 page)

She landed in the back seat and, although her eyes needed time to adjust to the dark interior, she knew someone else was in the car by the strong smell of cologne that assailed her.

“It’s kind of you to join me, Miss Mancini.”

Sophia straightened with as much dignity as possible after being so rudely shoved into the back of a car. She crossed her legs at the ankle the way the nuns at St. Catherine’s had taught her, and she held her pocketbook primly on her lap. She could at least pretend to be in control of her runaway nerves.

The car started to roll slowly forward.

Her eyes adjusted to the lack of sunlight, and she peered into the opposite side of the car to try to see who the smooth voice belonged to. The front passenger-side door slammed shut and the enormous man who had grabbed her turned to look back at her.

“When someone says hello to you, you should be polite and say hello back.”

The hulk was giving etiquette lessons?

“That’s okay, Mooch. I think we’ve just surprised our guest, is all.” The smooth voice paused. “Are you having a pleasant day, Miss Mancini?”

“I was, right up until your friend man-handled me into your vehicle.”

“I apologize if we startled you, but I wanted to speak with you for a moment.”

Frankie Vidoni! Sophia felt a small, smug sense of satisfaction that she’d figured it out without being told. But what did Frankie, of all people, want to talk to her about?

“What kind of business could you possibly have with me?”

Grandpa had been right. When you looked for trouble, it really did meet you halfway. Because, if anyone in Little Italy was trouble, it was Frankie Vidoni. Which, Sophia realized, really should frighten her, but she couldn’t help but wonder if it might be good for business to hear him out. And since the car was still moving along at a snail’s pace, listening to Frankie seemed easier than trying to jump out.

“It has come to my attention that you and your brother have opened a private investigation agency. I wanted to wish you much success in your endeavor.”

“You could have sent flowers or a note, Mr. Vidoni.”

He laughed. “True, true, I could have indeed.” He twisted a gold pinky ring around his finger as he spoke. “But then I wouldn’t have been able to make you a proposition.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’d like to retain your services.”

Sophia waited for more, but Frankie was silent.

“Can you give me an idea of what sort of case this is?”

“No.”

“Pardon me?” What was his game?

“I would like to keep you and your brother on retainer for any, shall we say, future happenings.”

Happenings? She had no idea what that translated to in the Vidoni world, but it didn’t sound good.

“Could you perhaps call our home to discuss this?”

“I assumed you shared a party line with neighbors?”

Sophia nodded.

“I thought so. I’m sure you can understand my reluctance to be overheard, can’t you Miss Mancini? Now, let’s get down to business. I happen to know that Angelo has recently had certain legal proceedings that would make employment definitely advantageous to him.”

Ah, so Frankie knew. The thought unsettled her. “Mr. Vidoni, you can’t hire us if you don’t have anything for us to investigate.”

“Let’s just say I have a feeling that something may happen. Soon.”

May happen? What did that mean?

She turned to Frankie. “Then call on us after it happens and we’ll see if we can help. Now, please let me go.”

“Can I drop you somewhere?”

“I was on my way to Vincenzo’s Ristorante.”

“That’s where tomorrow’s party will be?”

Sophia nodded. He already knew that. But what was it he wanted to know badly enough to have her tossed into his car?

“My invitation seems to have been misdirected.”

“Your invitation wasn’t misdirected, misplaced, or even lost, Mr. Vidoni, because we didn’t send you one.” She ignored the threatening glare from Mr. Mooch in the front seat, and kept her eyes on Frankie’s impassive face. “However, you are welcome to join us. I don’t think it’s your...usual crowd, but feel free to come.”

Frankie nodded his thanks, a pleased expression on his face. “May I bring a guest?”

“Mr. Mooch is welcome to join you, of course.”

Frankie cleared his throat. “I was referring to a lady friend.”

So perhaps this wasn’t the best time to ask after Mrs. Vidoni.

“Fine. Vincenzo’s at four o’clock. May I go now?”

“Of course. Thank you for your generous invitation. Until tomorrow then.”

Frankie gave the order to stop and the car drew up in front of Bagatelli Brothers Menswear. Sophia waited to alight until Mooch came to open the door for her. She stepped onto the sidewalk and turned back toward the car.

“You’re welcome to come tomorrow too, Mr. Mooch.”

His only response was a low growl.

And he was worried about
her
manners?

***

To clear her head, Sophia needed a cannoli. She headed straight for Carelli’s Bakery.

She stopped at the bakery window, and let her eyes feast on the rows of pastries and cookies that lined the glass cases. She inhaled deeply. She loved Carelli’s. It was one of her favorite places in the world, which, she reminded herself, might explain why her dress for tomorrow just barely fit. Before she had time to decide if just one little cannoli would really hurt, the bakery door swung open and a sad-looking woman stepped out.

“Hello, Sophia.” The words were spoken as if they wrung out of her mouth by a torture device.

“Hello, Stella. How are you?”

Stella Moretti was Vincenzo’s wife, legally at least. Poor woman, she probably always would be. A devout Catholic, Stella was tied to Vincenzo by their marriage vows, but she didn’t live under the same roof with him. He’d tossed her out of their apartment above the restaurant as soon as he’d come back from the war.

While others had gone through the war years with worry in their eyes, Stella had had a gleam in hers. She’d been carefree. While other wives with husbands fighting overseas prayed German and Japanese bullets would miss their loved ones, Stella prayed the bullets would find her husband the perfect target. Her prayers had gone unanswered, however, and now her pre-war look of perpetual misery had returned.

But what could Sophia say? I’m sorry your husband came home alive?

“I hear you and Angelo have opened a detective agency.”

Sophia nodded. “We have. We’d be grateful if you refer anyone you might know who is looking for help with personal matters. In fact, why don’t you come tomorrow for our grand opening party at–-” She stopped speaking. She couldn’t very well invite Stella to the same restaurant her husband had thrown her out of.

A morose smile played on Stella’s lips.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think.”

“It is okay, Sophia. I wish you much success however I won’t be able to join you. I don’t want to be anywhere near Vincenzo.”

“It’s still that hard for you to be in the same room with him?”

Stella laughed, a strangled sound that caught in her throat. “Hard? No. I’m not afraid of Vincenzo. I just worry that if I got that close to him, I’d kill him.”

“I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him.” A meat cleaver slammed into the cutting board with each repeated threat.

Sophia watched in stunned silence. Perhaps she’d come at a bad time.

Unseen, she eased the swinging kitchen door closed and backed out of Vincenzo’s kitchen. Moments earlier, she’d arrived at the restaurant to find it deserted.

In search of Vincenzo, she had headed back to the kitchen, only to witness the execution of a chicken. Somehow it was hard to believe the threats were aimed at the poor bird.

It wouldn’t have surprised her half as much if the mad man with the cleaver had been Vincenzo, but it was Eugene Gallo, Vincenzo’s meek and mild partner.

What to do now? Eugene obviously needed the space to work through his rage. What on earth had angered him so? The poor, defenseless chicken couldn’t possibly have incurred such anger.

A quick glance at her wrist watch told her she had time to wait for someone to show up. She only needed to run over a few details for tomorrow’s party and then she’d be on her way. Where was everyone? She’d never seen the restaurant empty before. The silence was almost eerie.

Sophia wandered to the front of the dining room. Vincenzo’s Ristorante was no kitsch Italian eatery. Tasteful and elegant, it offered subtle Italian charm with divinely inspired dishes that brought cars full of people from the city each weekend.

Who had designed the restaurant’s interior? She’d never thought about it before, but it couldn’t have been Vincenzo. The atmosphere was too classy, too elegant, for him to have had input. Eugene? Before today she’d have said no, absolutely not. Eugene was so--what was the kind way to say this--he was too colorless. Too timid. Eugene wasn’t the kind of man who made much of an impression.

The Ristorante did though. White stucco walls featured painted scenes of a picturesque Italy she’d always dreamed of seeing. She could almost hear the water lapping against the gondolas in Venice. On the opposite side of the wall there was a mural detailing the winding roads of the Amalfi Coast.

She reached up to trace the fishing boats that bobbed in the jewel-toned Mediterranean waters.

“Miss Mancini.”

Eugene Gallo stood in the entryway to the kitchen. He wiped his hands on his apron, so white and fresh he must have just exchanged it for the blood stained one he’d worn moments ago.

“I was just tenderizing some chicken,” he said, his voice soft and gentle. “How can I help you?”

Eugene moved so quietly, spoke so softly, it was hard to equate him with the ferocious man in the kitchen. Just who had he been threatening to kill anyway?

“Are you here about your party?”

She nodded. “I wanted to double check that everything was in order.” Something wasn’t right. She glanced around, unable to pinpoint it.

“You have nothing to worry about. Everything will be fine by tomorrow,” Eugene said.

Her eyes widened. What did that mean? By tomorrow?

Eugene wouldn’t meet her gaze. She looked around the empty room. What
exactly
was going on?

“The menu, I have it here.” Eugene took a folded piece of paper from his pocket and smoothed it on the table. “Zuppa di Ceci to start, with baskets of fresh loaves of garlic bread.”

Creamy chick pea soup. Perfect.

“Pasta with mascarpone, sun dried tomatoes, and spinach,” Eugene continued. “Gnocchi caprese and then, my specialty, chicken cacciatore.”

Yes, well, she’d stick to the gnocchi after what she had witnessed in the kitchen. She glanced at Eugene as he bent over the menu scrawled in his tiny, precise handwriting. He wasn’t a large man, no taller than she was, and she needed pumps to reach five foot five. Eugene was slight of build, mild of manner, but when he spoke about food something changed. He sounded assured, confident almost. As well he should, her mouth watered just hearing him read the menu.

“I think I forgot to mention a salad choice the first time we spoke.”

Eugene raised his head and a smile stretched across his thin lips. “What do you think about Pan Zanella salad?”

“I’m not sure.” Bread salad?

“Trust me on this. Cubes of crusted bread tossed with garlic and fresh tomatoes and basil.” He touched closed fingers to his lips and made the sound of a kiss. Italian-speak for delicious.

“Dessert?”

“Two kinds of biscotti, one a polenta dried cranberry and the other a ginger orange with almonds.” He straightened and put the folded piece of paper back in his pocket. “Tiramisu naturally, as well as cappuccino and espresso. American coffee too if you insist.”

The menu did sound heavenly, but still, something wasn’t right. She inhaled. That was it. What was a renowned Italian restaurant without the aroma of garlic, oregano, and simmering marinara, especially at lunchtime?

The front door opened and slammed shut with an ear splitting intensity. Both Eugene and Sophia jumped.

Vincenzo stood in the entrance way. “Out,” he thundered. He pointed in her direction. “You. Out. Now.”

Her feet should have been moving, but Sophia stood frozen in place. Vincenzo was blocking the door. Close to six feet tall, he doubtless weighed at least a hundred pounds more than she did. Molten hot anger radiated from him.

No. She was fine where she was.

Eugene, on the other hand, appeared anything but fine. The glimmer of a confident chef she’d seen in him moments ago, all but disappeared. He stood behind her wringing his hands.

How
did
these two men work together?

Vincenzo took a step toward them. Like partners in a strange dance, Eugene somehow managed to move even closer to Sophia.

Vincenzo was shaking with rage, Eugene with fear, and Sophia had had enough.

“What is going on, Vincenzo?” she demanded.

“Get out.”

“Not until I know what’s wrong.” She pointed to the closed sign in the window. “Why aren’t you open? Where are the waiters?”

Vincenzo stood, silent, his angry eyes blazing holes into ... not her. He wasn’t even looking at her. She looked over her shoulder, past a quaking Eugene, to see what Vincenzo was staring at.

It wasn’t a what. It was a who. Maria Acino.

Where had she come from? Sophia hadn’t seen her sitting at the back of the restaurant.

“He’s not talking to you, honey,” Maria spoke for the first time, her voice calm and confident. She slowly sauntered to stand beside Sophia.

Maria was several inches taller than she was, and far more buxom and made up. Sophia felt like a rag doll next to a porcelain doll with a painted face. Her Nonna would have called a woman dressed like Maria a floozy. Sophia had never met Maria but, like everyone else in the neighborhood, she’d heard tell of the two husbands Maria had buried. Some say she did more than bury them. Talk was that she’d helped usher both over the threshold that separated life from death.

“Miss Mancini, isn’t it?” She held out her hand and Sophia shook it. The bracelets weighing down Maria’s wrists made a gentle, tinkling noise--a welcome sound in a room silent with unspoken, angry words. “I’m looking forward to tomorrow’s party. Frankie promised to bring me.”