Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 04 - Killer Kool (14 page)

By the time we arrived at the Taste of Venice restaurant, it was an hour later. I’d had to drive back to the
Twin Palms RV park twice-first for Pop Pop’s spare
oxygen tank and, second, for his blood-pressure medication. Madame Geri was standing out front, pointing at
her watch. She’d changed into her evening dress as well:
a 1920s-style sequined tunic, leggings, and a cape.

Sassy, if not classy.

The restaurant stretched behind her, a smallish
wooden structure with a vine-covered trellis across the
front and twinkling lights circling the windows. It had a
laid-back, cozy feel, the kind of ambiance that only a
really good restaurant could pull off successfully.

“Sorry we’re late,” I said, “but Pop Pop had a few
last-minute items he’d forgotten.” I helped him out of
my truck, now being an expert at handling him and his
oxygen paraphernalia.

As we approached, Madame Geri whispered, “Don’t get too attached; he’s got a date with destiny soon-if
you get my drift.”

I started. “How soon?”

“A few years.” She shrugged. “You’ve got time to be
a couple, but don’t expect a long-term relationship.”

“We’re not dating,” I hissed back as we entered Taste
of Venice. The subdued lighting and fine linens bore out
the quiet elegance of the exterior. “It’s just that he gave me
a space heater, and I felt sorry for him, because he’s all
alone every night. I know how it feels, now that both of
my potential boyfriends have disappeared-” I broke
off, realizing how lame I sounded. “All right, fine, we’re
dating! I’m dating a man in his eighties!”

Everyone in the restaurant fell into silence right at
the moment I spewed forth with my loud declaration. I
raised my chin, refusing to be embarrassed, until I spied
Cole and Nick in the group of diners at a table together.

Huh?

I heard a few snickers, which I tried to ignore, and
eventually people resumed their conversations.

My two MIA boyfriends had just heard me say that I
was now dating a man old enough to have known President Roosevelt personally.

Still cringing, I realized the bigger question was, what
were they doing at the same table? Were they doubledating already, and the women had excused themselves
for a few moments? Had they each found someone to
replace me within twenty-four hours?

Then again, I was with Pop Pop.

Wishing the floor would swallow me up, I tried to
keep up a good front and a firm hold on Pop Pop’s oxygen tank.

A middle-aged woman with a fall of thick, chestnut
hair, chic glasses, and a stunning black suit came up,
carrying a stack of menus. “I’m Francesca, the owner,
and it’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Madame Geri.”

My companion gave a regal nod of her dreadlocks.
She’d pinned them up for the evening and had placed a
jeweled comb in the back, keeping with her 1920s theme.

Francesca turned to me. “And I understand you are
the food critic from the Observer. It’s a pleasure to meet
you and … uh … your date.”

“I’m Pop Pop Welch,” he chimed in. “Mallie and I
are really just friends, but I’m hoping for something
more permanent, if you get my drift.”

“Of course,” Francesca answered, without altering
her smoothly professional manner. “May I seat you at
one of our best tables?”

“As long as it’s not a booth.” Pop Pop tapped his oxygen. “I can’t replace the tank fast enough if I’m not in a
chair.”

“Certainly, sir.” Again, she didn’t miss a beat.

Boy, she had that class-act down-no doubt born of
long practice-which was probably the best description
of her job.

As she led us through the dining room, I shot a furtive glance in Cole and Nick’s direction. They appeared to be deep in conversation and didn’t even look up as we
moved toward our table.

I coughed and cleared my throat loudly as I went by
them, hoping to get their attention, but they didn’t so
much as blink.

What was up?

Stopping to look at them again, I didn’t realize Pop
Pop had taken a little pause to catch his breath, and I
rammed into him, causing him to stumble into a table. A
glass of water tipped over and shattered on the tile floor.
At that point, Nick and Cole switched their attention to
our motley trio making our way across the dining room.
Nick started to rise, but Francesca held up a hand in his
direction.

“I’ll have it cleaned up-please just continue with your
dinner.”

Nick sank back down. Damn. Now I’d never know
what they were talking about.

I steadied Pop Pop by grasping his arm and then
steered him along behind Francesca. He moved with the
speed of a turtle, but we finally made it to our table without further incident.

After we took our seats, with Pop Pop next to me,
Francesca handed us paper-thin menus that apparently contained only five items, none of which had
prices.

“How much are the entrees?” I asked, mentally calculating what I’d have to pony up beyond the twenty
bucks Anita had promised per meal.

Francesca peered down her patrician nose and mentioned an amount that caused me to catch my breath.

“I’ll get the check,” Madame Geri offered, much to
my relief. I didn’t even make a pretense of arguing with
her over it, because I knew it wouldn’t be yours truly. I
didn’t carry that much cash, nor did I have that much
money available on my debit card.

“Thanks,” I said, after Francesca moved away to
clean up Pop Pop’s accident. “So, what do you think,
Madame Geri?”

“I’ll have the lobster ravioli with the secret sauce,”
she pronounced after scanning the menu.

“No, I mean, do you think Francesca is the type of
person who could’ve murdered Marco?” I watched the
imperious way Francesca flicked her hand to motion over
a waiter to sweep up the broken glass. “She certainly
seems to rule this place like Lucrezia Borgia-which sort
of fits, even though the shellfish wasn’t exactly a poison.”

“I don’t know yet, but I’m getting a powerful vibe that
tells me she’s capable of strong emotion-the kind that
can drive a person to kill.” She tucked a rogue dreadlock
behind her ear, her mouth pursed in thoughtful reflection. “But whether she did it or not remains to be seen”

“Did what?” Pop Pop tapped his hearing aid. “My
hearing aid must be on the fritz.”

“Uh … change the menu,” I stammered, not liking
to lie, even to protect Pop Pop from hearing things that
could cause his pacemaker to short circuit.

“I thought I heard the word murder,” he continued, pulling out the left hearing aid and replacing the battery
with a backup he kept in his pocket. “Ah, that’s better;
now I can hear everything.”

Madame Geri and I exchanged a warning look and
focused on our menus.

“Since I have to review the food, let’s all order a different entree,” I suggested.

“Huh? I don’t need a tray.” Pop Pop tapped the right
hearing aid this time. “Dadgum it, now the other one
went out, and I have only one replacement battery.”

“Entree!” I repeated, smiling inwardly. Good. Now he
only could hear every other word. “How about you order
the mushroom risotto, Pop Pop, and I’ll have the shrimp
Alfredo?” I stressed the shellfish word with a knowing
nod in Madame Geri’s direction.

“Good choice.” She winked at me.

Our waiter approached in his tuxedo, white cloth over
his arm, and took our order with a formal gravity reserved for high tea at the Ritz. After last night’s debacle
at Le Sink, though, it was kind of refreshing.

Once he left, I leaned forward toward Madame Geri. “Did you see who was sitting together over there? Nick
and Cole?”

“Uh-huh.” She folded her hands on the table. “Mallie,
you tried to date both of them at the same time; they’re
probably commiserating.”

“Hah.” I didn’t turn around. “They don’t look inconsolable to me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I guess not.” I pretended to drop my napkin on the
floor and tilted my face in their direction as I retrieved
it. Commiserating, my eye. They appeared lost in pleasant conversation.

Double hah.

Pop Pop reached for his water and, remembering
what had happened at Le Sink with his dentures, I
moved the glass out of his reach. “Why don’t we have
some wine?”

“Sure, toots.” He draped a bony arm across the back
of my chair. I leaned as far away from him as I could get
without moving to the other side of the table.

“Yes, let’s order a bottle.” Madame Geri gave a little
wave in Francesca’s direction, who, having finished overseeing the cleanup, instantly returned to our table. This
food critic thing wasn’t half-bad; I did get incredible
service.

“We’d like to order a bottle of pinot noir,” Madame
Geri said, scanning the wine list for a few moments.
“Let’s go with the Torrini vineyard. It seems to be one
of your better vintages.”

Francesca nodded in agreement. “Or you might try
the Armanti merlot.”

“Wouldn’t the pinot noir complement your special
sauce better?” Madame Geri asked, folding her hands
into a bridge and leaning her chin on top, her eyes on
Francesca. “The menu says the sauce has a five-herb
blend…. What are they?”

“Oregano, basil, Italian parsley, and two other ingredients.”

Madame Geri lifted her eyebrows, waiting for our
hostess to finish the list.

“I can’t tell you what the other ingredients are-it’s a
house specialty.”

Francesca seized the wine list but couldn’t budge it
from under Madame Geri’s elbows. “Could you let me
have the wine list? Then I’ll get your pinot noir.” Geri
smiled, elbows firmly planted.

“I bet I know,” Pop Pop remarked, a twinkle in his
eye. “It’s dried cheese out of one of those cans. You know,
the stuff you shake on pizza.”

Glaring at him, Francesca placed one hand on her
hip. “Do you mean parmesan?”

“Yeah, that’s it!” Pop Pop threw his hands up in excitement. “Gimme an extra shake on my sauce.”

“I don’t use canned parmesan cheese, either in my
special sauce or other entrees. Everything that we serve
is homemade, fresh to order, with nothing canned.” The
glare turned almost murderous.

I drew back into the circle of Pop Pop’s cadaver-like
arms.

“Now, may I have my wine list?” The irritation in
Francesca’s voice upped a notch.

“Sure.” Madame Geri held it out and sat back. Francesca whipped the wine list away from her and stalked off.

“What was that all about?” I inquired in a hushed tone.

“Just pushing her a bit.” Madame Geri opened her retro
bag and produced a silver compact. As she powdered her
nose, she commented, “By the way, I’m still trying to
commune with Anita’s ancestors about your raise.”

“And?”

“Still nothing. But I haven’t given up yet.” Madame
Geri slipped the compact back into her purse. “I have
my ways of finding things out.”

I couldn’t argue with that one. Right then, a youngish,
Latin-looking guy with a guitar started playing classical
music on the tiny stage. Diverted, I listened to the dreamy
romantic song, wishing that either Cole or Nick sat at my
table, rather than the one-thousand-year-old man and
the loopy island psychic.

In a short time, our food arrived, and I inhaled the
garlic and herb aroma that wafted up from my shrimp
Alfredo. My mouth began to water in anticipation of
biting into one of those jumbo shrimp.

Maybe this dinner wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Pop Pop took his napkin, carefully unfolded it, and
tucked it into his shirt collar, bib-style. “I forgot my
glasses-blast it!”

Then he grabbed a fork and tried to spear a giant
mushroom in the middle of the risotto. He missed, and
the mushroom went flying off his plate and smack into
Francesca, as she approached with our wine.

She halted, staring down at the large red blob of sauce
that stained her white suit. Muttering a loud expletive, she
turned to Madame Geri. “You did that on purpose-“

“It was Pop Pop,” I cut in. “He’s got arthritis in his
hands.”

“Liar!” she spat out. “This is a designer suit, and I demand that you pay for the cleaning bill.”

“Not likely.” Madame Geri calmly began to sample
her own entree, ignoring Francesca’s hissy fit.

Sensing that things might come to head, I shoveled in
as much of my entree as I could and took a couple of
quick bites of Pop Pop’s risotto. No matter what, I’d
have to write a restaurant review, so I needed to have
some idea of the food quality at Taste of Venice.

The risotto melted in my mouth with an explosion of
taste so strong, if I’d been standing, my knees would’ve
gone weak at the delicate blend of Italian flavors.

Wow.

In the meantime, Pop Pop kept trying to spear mushrooms, which flew off his plate like Frisbees, hitting
Francesca in the chest, whapping a middle-aged guy at
the next table, and slamming into his female companion, knocking her silver wig askew.

The woman gasped and tried to straighten her cheap
synthetic bouffant, but then it tilted to the other side and
looked even worse.

“Stop that, old man!” Francesca shouted, holding her
hands up to ward off any more wayward mushrooms.

“Don’t call him ‘old,”’ I said in a huff. I might refer
to him as an “aging dotard,” but I was his date for the
evening.

“This is my restaurant, and I can do what I want.” Francesca tried to snatch the fork out of Pop Pop’s hand,
but he evaded her attempts.

Madame Geri didn’t attempt to halt Pop Pop’s mad
attack on the mushrooms. Instead, she held up a forkful
of lobster and commented, “I think I know what’s in
this secret sauce.”

“Shut up” Francesca slammed the wine bottle onto our
table and tried to remove Pop Pop’s plate, but he edged
it away from her. “You know nothing about my fiftythousand-dollar sauce.”

“Did Marco?” Madame Geri countered. “It was his
recipe, wasn’t it?”

Francesca’s eyebrows lowered in a thunderous line.
“How dare you accuse me of stealing? You’re nothing but
a phony psychic who hangs out with a girl who works
for a two-bit paper and an old fossil who can barely chew
his own food.”