“That Patrice Stone, my innocent victim, wasn’t so innocent after all.”
“Oh, that...” Franco squinted at the cloudless sky. “Do this job long enough, and you’ll find out there’s no such thing as an innocent victim.”
“Not true,” I said. “And that’s an awfully cynical way to look at the world.”
Franco smiled. “She’s baa-aack! Now that’s the Clare Cosi I know.”
“Yeah, well... what I know isn’t cheering me. I’m almost certain my former mother-in-law is in business with a murderer.”
“Alicia Bower?”
“I’m betting Alicia discovered that Patrice Stone was really behind that fake-corpse setup at the Topaz Hotel—and that’s why she killed her.”
Franco nodded. “That’s a motive, all right.”
“And on the night of the murder, I saw Alicia returning from the rain-soaked Garden alone. What was she doing out there?”
“You tell me.”
“She was looking for the security cameras! Alicia wanted to check the location of each lens so she could use an open umbrella to hide her identity.”
“Yeah, this is starting to sound premeditated,” Franco said, his tone encouraging.
“Alicia’s planning didn’t end there. Killing Patrice wasn’t enough. She tried to frame Maya Lansing, too, by using the fitness queen’s umbrella—a neat trick to dispose of two rivals in one night.”
“That’s one tough old dame, but it sounds like you figured it all out.”
“It makes perfect sense.”
“Sure, it makes perfect sense,” Franco replied. “But where’s your proof?”
My shoulders sagged. The answer to Franco’s question was simple. I didn’t have proof. Not yet. But now that I was sure of Alicia Bower’s guilt, I was certain I could find some kind of evidence to hand Lori Soles and Sue Ellen Bass.
Fortunately, a germ of a plan was forming in my head. All I needed was the proper tool, and I knew exactly where to find it—with the rest of Joy’s childhood things in the closet of my duplex.
Twenty-Eight
The next twenty-four hours melted away faster than a white chocolate truffle on a sun-baked sidewalk. Time chilled only twice for me—first when I put our dinner together and next when Mike and I were finally alone.
I’d invited Quinn to join us for a very good reason, other than I wanted to see him (which was nothing newsworthy; I always did). I was more concerned with Sergeant Franco’s vendetta against that Jersey drug dealer.
I wasn’t about to rat the guy out, especially after he’d backed me up so brilliantly, but since he and my daughter gave Mike so much
So I pulled out my cutting board, my knives, and my large sauté pan. I warmed the extra-virgin olive oil, put pasta water on to boil, and began putting together what I’d come to think of as my Italian mole.
Yes, I know: this was Manhattan, land of 24/7 takeout. But I’d promised Sergeant Franco a home-cooked meal, and I aimed to deliver.
My grandmother’s pasta sauces simmered for five to six hours. I had only one. But I refused to sacrifice flavor. The trick was layering in fresh ingredients, intensify their essence with vibrant spices, and finishing with the velvety melting of a fine, dark secret: chocolate.
The resulting mushroom-wine sauce was like an excellent coffee blend (not to mention my idea of the perfect man)—exhilarating complexity with a robust body, smooth finish, and the lingering feeling of rich, warm depth. (I planned to serve it over fat fettuccine noodles—and since sizable men came with sizable appetites, the menu would also include butter-basted Rock Cornish game hens with lemon and rosemary, Caesar salad, and fresh garlic bread.)
Joy offered to help, but she was a salaried stove-jockey now, and I wanted to give my girl a break—frankly, I needed one, too, and that’s what cooking was for me.
The rote routine of slicing mushrooms felt quietly calming. The faint scent of soil evoked relaxing visions of pastoral farms and lovingly tended gardens. The act of stirring was practically Zen meditation; and when the ingredients came together, the room was saturated with an aromatic air-bath more invigorating than a day spa.
Such were my private musings. I seldom shared them—not in an age when most people ate with the press of a button, be it microwave or speed-dial call to a pizzeria. Then again, most people weren’t raised by a woman born in the rural hills of Italy, where bread was baked in outdoor ovens; cycles of planting and harvesting inspired rituals that stretched back millennia; dreams held powerful portents; and miracles were not only possible but seen and felt every day.
My grandmother’s name was Graziella—Italian for Grace. “God put beauty in everything,” she’d say, “if you take the trouble to see it . . .”
Like a vanilla bean in simmering milk, she infused my world with the sweetest essence, showing me the magic of rising yeast breads, the music of snapping green beans, and the gardener’s palette of ripe-red tomatoes, dark purple eggplant, yellow-gold zucchini flowers, and pale orange peppers.
Not that my childhood had been a blithe, pain-free play. At seven, I saw no beauty in my mom leaving my pop for a salesman on his way back to Miami. Tears had been the culmination of that act. Tears and fear and confusion. But then Nonna stepped in.
Day in and day out, she’d been there for me, just as she’d been there for the customers of her little grocery—just as I wanted my coffeehouse to be there for my customers when they stopped by for a warm cup of something that would reassure and renew.
That’s why time in my kitchen always made me feel closer to Grace—and Joy, because I’d raised my daughter to believe what my grandmother believed: that simply taking, taking, taking made you a sucking void, hollow, “like a dead person.” But preparing a meal was an act of giving, and giving was evidence of living. That’s why cooking meant so much to the likes of us. It was more than love. It was life.
I could only hope Joy’s future husband would see that in her and love her for it. I knew it was one reason Mike loved me. Not that he’d explicitly stated it. But the man’s routine rendezvous with the Grim Reaper needed continual remedy, and the true-blue flame of my gas stove always lightened that darkness.
I would have enjoyed Mike’s company in my kitchen that evening with his jacket and holster shed, his shirtsleeves rolled up, but he was running late, so when Sergeant Franco arrived, I opened a bottle of Pinot Noir, poured off eight ounces for my recipe (with a little taste of that cherry-oak velvet for myself), and sat my daughter and her roughneck suitor in the duplex living room with a crackling fire and the rest of the bottle.
I left the room with a kind of clueless buoyancy, pretending they were about to have a stimulating discussion about books, film, music, art, but (of course) one glance back revealed lips and tongues engaged in something other than discourse.
I sighed, wondering what was wrong with me anyhow. When Mike and I first started dating, we didn’t talk about art, either—and we certainly didn’t need Mocha Magic.
When Mike finally arrived, I unfurled my favorite tablecloth of Florentine lace, lit two tapers in crystal holders, and the four of us settled ourselves around the Spode Blue Italian pattern (Madame’s third best china) in the duplex’s small dining room of porcelain antiques and polished mahogany. More wine was poured; my food was eaten with smacking lips (on Franco’s part), kind compliments from my daughter, and Mike’s occasional thrilling moan of taste bud bliss.
Mike and Franco never talked work, although an exchanged wordless glance or two suggested secret
