Friday evening we were a block away from the Grandese house when a booming Italian love song exploded in the air.
“
O
sole
...
o
sole
mio
...
sta
’nfronte
a
te
!
O
sole
...”
Rossi and I looked at each other and grinned. Rum Row would never be the same.
We rang the bell and waited at the front door. For the occasion, Rossi had donned his most lurid Hawaiian shirt, lavender orchids on a vivid purple background.
“You’d better stay out of the kitchen,” I warned. “I’ll never find you in there.”
Before he could ask why not, a sad-eyed, dark-haired woman met us at the door. “Everyone is out by the pool,” she said, gesturing to the brick path stretching along the side lawn.
“Your name is?” I asked.
“Bonita,” she said softly. “I was the wife of Tomas.” Ah. The woman Chip had mentioned.
I took her hand. “I am so sorry for your loss, Bonita.”
An expression I couldn’t fathom crossed her face. “No one is sadder than I,
señora
. Inside me is all the sorrow in the world.”
“I know,” I said. And I did, but there was little more to say, and with a parting smile, I took Rossi’s arm and together we walked along the brick path.
“Don’t be sad,” he said. “Not when you look so beautiful tonight.”
With his words ringing in my ears, I strolled onto the terrace where a table draped with a white cloth was set for a party. Francesco dropped a basting brush next to the barbeque grill and rushed over to us. “Right on time. I like that.” He eyeballed my halter dress, careening to a stop at the neckline. “Looking sharp, Deva. Green’s your color.”
“Yours too, Francesco.”
He laughed and looked down at his green polo shirt. “Yeah, we’re in father and daughter outfits tonight.” This was the first time I’d seen him wear anything but a dark suit, white shirt and silk tie. At his ease with black chest hair sprouting out of the neck of the shirt and a pair of white shorts revealing his tree-trunk legs, he was obviously enjoying the role of family man. “Hey, Jewels,” he yelled. “Come say hello. I gotta get back to the grill.”
Jewels walked across the lawn with little Frannie on her hip. In her loose white shift and thong sandals, she looked like a model for a teen magazine. As she came near, she smiled at Rossi and examined my face. “You look good. The bruises are all gone. I like your dress too.”
“And I like yours.”
“It’s a maternity. I’ve been dying to wear one. Frannie thinks I don’t need it yet, but...” She shrugged and kissed the top of the baby’s head. He drooled and cooed, and she cooed “Nice boy” back at him.
I glanced over at Rossi. He was grinning at little Frannie, which I interpreted to mean, “Babies are great.”
Well
they
are
, I told myself,
so
don’t
read
into
it
.
“I’m not drinking these days,” Jewels said. “But why don’t you have something?”
A portable bar had been set up by the pool with Donny presiding. We strolled over to him. “White wine for the lady,” Rossi said.
Poker faced, Donny nodded. “Chardonnay? Pinot grigio?”
“The pinot,” I replied.
“For you, sir?”
“The same.”
So far, that was the most I’d ever heard Donny say. The phrase “a man of few words” must have been invented with him in mind.
As we sipped and admired the garden with its lush tropical plantings, Bonita came outside and took little Frannie from Jewels.
I inhaled deeply. The perfume of night-blooming jasmine and barbeque sauce floated on the breeze along with a booming aria from
La
Bohème
.
“A half hour, tops, and Grandese can expect a cruiser in his driveway,” Rossi said in my ear.
“I’ve never been to a party where cops showed up.”
“Tonight’s the night,” he said with a laugh.
“Hey, you two,” Francesco shouted from across the lawn. “Why don’t you pay your friend a visit? He’s slaving away in the kitchen. We’re having his home-made lobster ravioli tonight and my special ribs. Antipasto, iced shrimp, tiramisu. How’s that grab you?”
Rossi gave him a thumb’s up. With wineglasses in hand, we headed for the kitchen, nearly colliding en route with Cookie Harkness.
“Miss Dunne! What a surprise.” Clad in bright pink cotton tonight, she seemed stunned to see me.
Accompanying her was a deeply tanned man decked out in an ascot tie, linen shirt and rust-colored slacks embroidered with tiny green palm trees.
Cookie waved a languid hand in his vicinity. “My husband, Norman Chandler Harkness.” She turned to Rossi. “And you are?”
“Victor Giuseppe Rossi.” A three name response to a three name introduction. Good for Rossi, but
Giuseppe
? Had he been named for Uncle Beppe of the mysterious demise? Hmm, interesting.
Norm gave me a flabby handshake and pointed a finger at my glass. “You beat us to it. We were just chatting with the chef about the menu. Now we’re off to get a libation.”
“By all means,” Rossi said. “We’ll trade places with you.”
The kitchen buzzed with activity. By the stove, Bonita held little Frannie on her hip while she warmed a bottle of baby formula. AudreyAnn, in white slacks and a T-shirt under stress, greeted us with a curt nod and kept on arranging an antipasto platter. And Chip, a Coffee, Tea or Me apron over his chef’s clothes, was busy dividing a bowl of chilled shrimp into ten individual appetizer dishes.
“Fresh, never frozen,” he declared, stopping for a moment to check the oven. “From Biloxi. Best shrimp in the world. And my spicy salsa.” He came back to the prep table and ladled a generous spoonful of salsa over each individual shrimp glass.
“You missed one, Chip,” I said.
“No, that’s Francesco’s. He’s got a delicate stomach. Anything spicy gives him heartburn.” Chip shook his head regretfully. “Too bad, my salsa’s famous. Right, AudreyAnn?”
Without looking up, she gave him a grudging, “Yeah.”
Lovely
.
The
woman
has
all
the
charm
of
weeds
in
a
driveway
.
“We’ll be ready whenever Francesco is,” Chip said, putting the rest of the salsa back in the fridge. “He wants us all to eat together. Imagine. The chef, the salad girl...” he shot a quick, alarmed glance AudreyAnn’s way, but she didn’t bristle, “...Donny. Bonita. Can you believe that? What a guy!”
“Sounds good to me.” Rossi swiped one of the shrimp from the big bowl, and we strolled out to the patio where “Nessun Dorma” blasted the peace out of the evening.
Tears running down his cheeks, Francesco basted the ribs yet again. “Hear that aria?” he called to us. “Makes me cry every time.”
“Ten more minutes till a cruiser visit,” Rossi said to me, enjoying himself enormously. “Care for another drink?”
I shook my head. “I’m good for a while. We’ve lost our bartender anyway.”
At a beckoning finger from Francesco, Donny had replaced him at the grill and was turning the ribs with barbeque tongs. His boss disappeared somewhere, probably back to the kitchen.
“I’ll help myself,” Rossi said, striding toward the bar.
Figuring this was a good time to tour the house and see what Tom’s painting crew had accomplished, I opened a patio door and stepped into the living room. I didn’t get too far before voices coming from the foyer stopped me in my tracks.
Francesco and another man. Something agitated in Francesco’s tone told me I should leave, but before I could make a move I heard, “This is the last time I’m telling you, Norm. No excuses. I want my money.”
Norm murmured something. Whatever he said, Francesco wasn’t buying. “It wasn’t a goddamn Christmas present. It was a loan. For six months only. Maybe you got trouble recalling that, since it was over a year ago.”
Another murmur. I really needed to beat a retreat, but curiosity had me rooted to the floor.
“It don’t mean a thing. Stockbroker be damned. You’re nothing but a hustler. Worse. Your pool table’s got no pockets. And I don’t care if you got pockets or not. I’m giving you till Monday.”
“You won’t pull any rough stuff, will you?” Terror must have caused Norm to speak up. His question, quavery but clear, echoed in the empty rooms.
“Rough stuff? Don’t make me laugh. What we got going is a gentleman’s agreement. But I got my ways of collecting. No action by Monday, Cookie finds out.”
“No, please...”
No more hesitating, I had to make myself scarce and get out of there before they spotted me. The patio door seemed a mile away. The quickest way out was through the dining room and back to the kitchen. I tiptoed across the living room floor, quiet as the proverbial mouse, rounded the archway into the dining room—and almost smacked into Bonita. Equally stunned, we both gasped, two silent, shocked intakes of breath.
Bonita didn’t look as if she were on an errand. Nothing in her hands, no hurrying to get from point A to point B. No, like me she’d simply been listening to Francesco and Norm’s conversation. Snooping, in plain English.
“
Perdóneme
,” she said, and before I could answer, she turned on her heel, fled the dining room and hurried out to the kitchen.
Sorrow over Tomas’s death had obviously not killed her curiosity. But who was I to talk? Still, I couldn’t help but wonder what she hoped to hear.
Back on the patio, I made a beeline for the bar. With Donny still manning the grill, Rossi had stayed on as bartender. And
Manon
had replaced
Aida
on the sound system.
“I’d love a glass of wine now,” I said. He poured me a drink from the open pinot bottle. As he handed me the glass, he looked up over my shoulder and broke into a white-toothed grin.
“Officer Batano, good evening.”
In the brown uniform of the Naples PD, the biggest cop in the world approached us, a look of utter astonishment on his face. “Rossi! You live here?”
Rossi laughed. “Not on my salary.”
“I need to speak to the owner. No one answered the front door.”
“We couldn’t hear the bell,” I said.
Francesco barged onto the terrace and shouldered his way over to us. “Hey, what’s going on?”
“I’m Officer Batano of the Naples police. Do you reside on this property?”
“That’s correct. What’s up, Officer?”
“Your music’s too loud for the neighbors. The station’s been flooded with calls.”
“They don’t like opera?”
“Only at the Met,” Rossi told him, still grinning.
“Okay, okay. I’ll turn off the system. But I’m not happy doing it.”
Batano gave Rossi a two-fingered salute. “Have a good evening, Lieutenant,” he said and strode off.
Francesco killed the speakers and into the sudden silence yelled, “The ribs are done. Jewels, tell Chip we’re ready to eat.”
“Okay, honey.” She left Cookie’s side and hurried indoors.
Glass in hand, Cookie wandered over to me and asked, “Where are the other guests?”
“Everyone’s here.”
She shook her head. “You must be mistaken. The table’s set for ten, but there are only six of us.”
Cookie was in for a shock.
“Did you count the cook, the kitchen helper, the nanny and the...” I changed “bouncer” to “...chauffeur?”
“Omigod,” she said, splaying a beringed hand across her chest. The pink diamond was drop-dead gorgeous. “You don’t mean that.”
“Yes, I do. Is there a problem?”
Cookie drew herself even more erect than usual. “If you don’t know, no amount of explaining will help.” She gulped her drink. “Right now, I need to find the powder room, but when this charade is over, Norm and I will have a talk.”
Yup
.
AudreyAnn lit the hurricane lamps on the table and brought out baskets of warmed crusty Italian bread and small saucers of herbed oil for dipping. A few minutes later, carrying a tray laden with the individual shrimp servings, Chip set them about the table, putting the one without the salsa at the head, Francesco’s place.
Jewels sat opposite her husband at the other end of the table, the baby in a portable crib by her side. I squeezed in between Rossi and Donny and across from Norm and Bonita. The cooks sat down last.
“How about a little Pavarotti while we eat?” Francesco asked.
