The Wedding Soup Murder: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (2 page)

I exchanged a look with Nonna. We both knew very well who had gotten me into “that mess” back in May, and she was wearing bifocals and red lipstick. But
Sofia, who had hopes of entering law enforcement,
had
relished her role in solving a murder. “I got myself into it, Mom, but it’s over and done with.” I wedged the container of silver balls down next to the cookie tray. I planned to hold these on my lap; there was no way I was letting my grandmother’s famous cookies ride in the back of the van. When my phone buzzed, I didn’t even have to look at it to know who it was.

“Well, ladies, my prince awaits.”
Where the hell are you???
his text read. “And as impatient as ever for my company.” I lifted the container of cookies, holding it close to my nose to inhale the anise scent. The minute I was in that car, I planned to stuff one in my mouth.

Nonna, who besides being a restaurateur was also a mind reader, narrowed her eyes at me. “Don’t get any ideas, Victoria. I know exactly how many are on that tray. And don’t be surprised if I come and check on you over at the club.”

I nearly dropped the plastic bin. “Why? I can take care of things.” I struggled to keep the panic from my voice; if Nonna sensed weakness, she’d zero in for the kill.

She raised her eyebrows over her glasses. “That remains to be seen.”

A loud honk from the parking lot startled me into action. “I’ll be fine, Nonna. Don’t worry about anything.”

I struggled at the back door, trying to ease it open with my elbow without jarring the precious commodity I was holding, all while Tim grinned at me from inside the car.

“Thanks for the help,” I said. Settling the cookies
next to me on the seat, I slammed the car door for emphasis.

He lifted a broad shoulder. “C’mon, Vic, you don’t need my help. You’re the girl who’s got it all under control, right?”

“Right,” I said through my teeth. But I couldn’t have been more wrong.

T
he summer season was in full swing as Tim and I headed out of our small beach town of Oceanside Park. It was a Saturday in July, and thousands of families had begun their yearly pilgrimage to the shore. Ocean Avenue, the coastal route along our section of beaches, was crawling with weekend traffic. The boardwalk and beaches were packed, and no doubt the Casa Lido would do a brisk business this evening. I found myself wishing that I’d be waiting tables instead of working a wedding reception.

“Do we do this a lot, Tim?” I asked, breaking the silence of the last seven miles.

He leaned close to the steering wheel, eyeing the line of cars in front of him as if he could will them all to move faster. “Do what? Sit in traffic on a Saturday in July?”

“No. I mean the Casa Lido making the soup for this wedding—since when are we caterers?”

“We’re not. This is just a favor. And I’m not any happier about it than you are.”

He stared straight ahead, his lips in a tight line. He
already had his bandanna tied around his head, and I noticed the faint furrows over his brows and the lines starting around his eyes. If I looked in a mirror, I’d see the same on my own face. When had we stopped being kids? Was it when we’d gone away to college? Or the day Tim came back and broke my heart? I blinked, both in surprise that it still had the power to hurt and at the tears that started gathering. Tim glanced at me once, and his voice softened. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

“What are you thinking about, then?”

“Well, if you must know, I was thinking about the past.”

“Ah, not a good idea, lass. You’re breakin’ your own rules.” He smiled, and my heart turned over.

“Cut it with the blarney, Trouvare. You’re more Italian than Irish and you know it.” But I couldn’t help smiling back. “And do you even
know
the rules?”

He nodded. “I do indeed.” He held up one finger. “Rule Number One: no touching. Rule Number Two: no reminiscing.”

“So you have learned your lessons.”
If only I’d learned mine.
“Tim,” I said, “I don’t want to be mad at you, and I don’t want you mad at me. What happened at the restaurant—”

“Was no one’s fault.” He rested his hand over mine briefly. “Look, my manly pride was hurt, okay?”

“I kind of figured that one out already.”

He squeezed my hand once and then put his back on the wheel. “And we’ll always be friends, Vic, no matter what.”

“You bet,” I said. “Friends for always.” And this time, my heart didn’t turn over—it sank like a stone.

The Belmont Country Club sat high behind the seawall that overlooked Belmont’s steep, narrow beach. The massive Victorian structure had once been a resort hotel for nineteenth-century New York financiers; along its walls were pictures of Astors and Vanderbilts sipping champagne in its dining room and taking turns around the ballroom. The magnificent ballroom featured a gallery of real Tiffany windows and hand-carved Grecian columns. Hopeful brides-to-be spent years on waiting lists (often before they were engaged) to be able to say that their weddings were held at the historic Belmont Club. And every one of these brides has something else in common: daddies with deep pockets. As we pulled into the long drive, I craned my neck to take in the architectural details, the gables and towers and the widow’s walk that circled the central tower.

“Wow,” I said. “This place is amazing.”

“Costs a fortune to have a wedding here,” Tim said.

“With waiting lists a mile long. I guess Dr. Chickie had an in, since he’s the club’s treasurer.”

Tim shrugged. “All I know is the place has two Michelin-star chefs. I’m playin’ with the big boys today.”

“You nervous?” I should have asked whether he was embarrassed, considering that Tim’s role was to throw some raw meatballs into chicken stock and to mix up a batch of cookie icing.

“Nah.” He pulled into a small lot behind the club, in
an area obviously meant for deliveries. He turned to me and winked. “I can hold my own.”

I was doubtful, but I only smiled at him as we got out of the car. He grabbed the cooler with the butter and sugar in it, and this time opened the door for me as I emerged with the precious container of cookies. I blinked as we stepped into the long, cavernous kitchen of the country club, outfitted in floor-to-ceiling stainless steel, from its state-of-the-art appliances to its gleaming countertops.

“Whoa,” I said, “you could fit four Casa Lido kitchens in this place.”

Tim smirked. “I’ve seen bigger. You forget, Vic, I worked at Chateau Fromage.”

For three whole months. Ah, Tim,
I thought.
Is there even room in this kitchen for your ego?
“Well, this might not be your beloved House of Cheese, but it’s pretty impressive.”

“May I help you?” a deep voice barked from the other end of the kitchen. I turned, nearly dropping the cookies. A stocky figure emerged from the shadows, and it was hard to tell at first whether the person was male or female. Like Tim, he/she wore a bandanna, but his/her kitchen clothes were black instead of white. Once again, the voice boomed from the dim corner. “What are you doing in my kitchen?”

Okay,
I thought,
female, but a toughie.
In her late fifties, maybe?
As she got closer, I noticed her heavy makeup: painted-on brows that gave her a look of perpetual surprise, dark eye shadow, false eyelashes, and a shade of lipstick that suggested she’d been eating orange ice
pops. The line of foundation along her chin was much darker than the skin on her neck. Though a red scarf covered most of her head, a scraggly salt-and-pepper ponytail poked out from behind it. All that makeup seemed at odds with her broad shoulders and mannish chef’s coat. Instead of the usual kitchen clogs, she wore heavy black shoes on her feet. “I asked you a question,” she snarled, and I took a step back, still clutching the cookies to my chest.

Tim stuck out his hand. “We’re here from the Casa Lido, Chef. I’m Tim Trouvare.” He grinned in his most charming Italian-Irish manner, as though she should recognize his famous name. But Tim’s hand hung unshaken in the air.

“I don’t care who you are,” she said, fixing me with a bright blue glare, “you don’t belong in my kitchen. And what the hell’s the Casa Lido anyway?”

“Um, it’s a restaurant in Oceanside Park.” I set the bin down on the counter, but didn’t make Tim’s mistake of offering my hand. “I’m Victoria Rienzi, one of the owners.” Okay, I wasn’t really, but this woman was clearly the impatient type; I wasn’t about to launch into my life story and tell her why I was working at the restaurant. “We’re here to serve the soup course. Our guys should be arriving with the van any minute.”

“Ah yes.” A slow smile spread across her face and she rubbed her hands together. “The famous Wedding Soup. Etienne is all ready for you.”

“Etienne?” I asked.

“Etienne Boulé,” Tim said out of the side of his mouth. “Michelin, remember?”

“Oh, right,” I whispered. The scary chef’s demeanor had softened, but there was a glint in her blue eyes.
She can’t wait,
I thought.
She knows Mr. Michelin Star Chef Etienne hates the idea of an interloper in his kitchen, and she wants to see the fireworks.

At that moment, she stuck out her hand. “I’m Kate Bridges, the pastry chef.” I braced myself for a tight grip, but her grasp was surprisingly weak for such a strong-looking woman. She jerked a thumb toward the back of the kitchen. “I was working on the cake when you came in.”

So she was the pastry chef. And like all chefs, she was proprietary about her kitchen. My eyes strayed to the container of cookies on the counter.
What will she do when she realizes there will be a tray of cookies competing with her masterpiece of a cake and her perfect Italian pastries?

“Oh, we’d love to see it,” I said, less than truthfully.

Her expression darkened, and she crossed her thick arms. “Nobody sees it until it’s ready to be cut.”

“We understand, Chef,” Tim said quickly, and shot me a look. “Listen, can you point me to a place I can set up my
mise en place
?”

She gave a snort of laughter. “Now, that’s up to Chef Boulé, isn’t it? I’m sure he’ll be
glad
to find you a spot for your
meez
.” She glanced at the container on the counter and then pointed. “What’s that?”

I looked at Tim. Tim looked at me. But neither one of us spoke.

Kate narrowed her eyes, her fake brows wriggling
like thin black snakes. “You two aren’t very good at answering questions, are you?”

I took a breath. “Those are my grandmother’s famous ricotta cookies. The bride requested that there be a tray of them on the dessert table this evening.”

“Oh, the bride, ‘requested,’ did she?” Kate asked, and took a step closer. My eyes were riveted to her false eyelashes and two bright spots of blush on her cheeks. She looked like a scary clown, and I stiffened. “Well,” she continued, “if the bride wants these homemade jobs so bad, she doesn’t need my pastries. Maybe she doesn’t need my cake, either!”

Just then the kitchen door swung open, and I was relieved for the interruption—until I got a good look at her. A tall redhead walked toward us, bare-legged in a green sheath and gold metallic sandals. Though her complexion was pale, much lighter than my own, she had a look the magazines call sun-kissed, with a light spray of freckles across her nose and pink cheeks. And the minute her eyes met Tim’s, it was over.

His hand strayed to his bandanna, and I knew he regretted that his dark curls weren’t tumbling charmingly over his forehead. I watched him start to roll the sleeves of his chef’s coat—
the better to show off your forearms, eh, Tim?
If he’d had plumage, he’d be puffing out his chest and dropping feathers all over the room. But whatever he was doing, it was working. The young woman addressed her words to Kate, but her eyes never left Tim’s face.

“Now, Chef, our bride knows that your pastries are
unparalleled. But she has a sentimental attachment to these particular cookies. Might we not make just a bit of room on the dessert table?” She flashed a smile, revealing two rows of white teeth worthy of Dr. Chickie’s best work. Kate seemed unmoved, but Tim was about to melt into a puddle on the floor.

Kate grunted, shook her head, and stamped off to her corner of the kitchen without a word. The redhead, still smiling, held out her hand. To me, amazingly enough. “I’m Lacey Harrison, Roberta’s wedding planner. You’re Victoria, aren’t you?”

I couldn’t help smiling back. “Yes, nice to meet you. We’re—”

“From the Casa Lido, here for the soup service. I’m Tim,” he interrupted, grabbing Lacey’s hand and shooting her the same Black Irish grin to which Kate had been impervious. But not so Lacey Harrison. She cast her eyes down shyly, revealing thick eyelashes—her own, I noted. Her cheeks glowed pink, her lips curved in a sweet smile, and she made no move to remove her hand from Tim’s. In my wrinkled blouse and serviceable skirt, I felt dumpy, frumpy, and old, though I was probably only about five years older than the enchanting Lacey. As I stood watching them, a wave of emotion washed over me, leaving regret and a tinge of sadness behind. If I’d entertained any hopes of getting back together with Tim, they’d just been dashed against the rocks.

“Very nice to meet you,” Lacey said, finally slipping her hand from his. “Both of you.” She turned to me, still smiling shyly. “I’m such a fan of your books. It’s so cool to actually meet you.”

Great,
I thought.
I can’t even have the satisfaction of hating her.
“Thanks,” I said. I glanced at the kitchen clock. It was time to end this lovefest and get down to business. “Lacey, our guys will be here with the soup ingredients any minute. How are we doing for time?”

“Well, the church service was scheduled for three; it’s a full Mass so they should be about halfway through it now. They’ll be taking pictures for a bit afterward, and our cocktail hour begins at five thirty sharp. But I should warn you,” she said, glancing at Tim, “that Chef Etienne and his staff will be here any moment to start preparing. The bulk of it was done yesterday, but with two hundred guests, there’s still an awful lot to do.”

Tim winked at her. “But I know you’ll have it all under control.”

Interesting. When I’m the one who has it all under control, it’s somehow threatening, but when Lacey does, it’s cute as a button.
Lacey shook her head, her gold highlights glinting under the bright lights of the kitchen. “That’s Elizabeth’s job. Elizabeth Merriman—she’s the president of the club and the events manager. And let me warn you again: She’s a stickler. She’s really big on the reputation of this place.” She lowered her voice. “We call her the Iron Lady. You know, like Margaret Thatcher. Only she’s worse.”

From the back of the kitchen came a sound that was something between a growl and a curse, and Lacey grinned. “Kate hates Elizabeth. They really butt heads. But Kate’s such an amazing pastry chef that Elizabeth puts up with her.”

Tim cocked his head in Kate’s direction. “Think
she’ll give me a few lessons? I’m trying to branch out a bit in my work, maybe add
dessert chef
to my résumé.” He lowered his voice, as though he were confiding something special. “In fact, I’m doing a little pastry work this evening.”

I clenched my jaw to keep my mouth from dropping open. He was making the freaking icing, and had done nothing but complain about it since Nonna assigned it to him. As our current sous chef, Tim was interested in being a chef de cuisine, period, and lived every day in the hopes our chef, Massimo, would retire or move on so he could step in. I shook my head at him, but he was paying no attention to me—something I would have to get used to now that Lacey was in the picture.

“Uh, I don’t know about that,” Lacey said. “Chef Kate is kind of volatile. And, anyway, the kitchen arrangements would be overseen by Elizabeth. Once the reception is under way, I’ll be leaving.”

I could hear the regret in her voice; so did Tim, apparently, because he stepped closer to her. Inclining his head, he spoke softly. “That’s too bad. But maybe I could see you another time?”

Her cheeks grew pink again. “Maybe,” she said, and then nodded to me. “It was nice to meet you, Victoria.”

“You too,” I said, and we both watched her go. I turned to Tim. “Since when do you have aspirations to be a dessert chef?”

“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think, Vic. I’m a man of surprises.”

“Right,” I said. “How ’bout you surprise me by getting that icing ready?”

He shook his head. “Too early. And, anyway, I’m not making it. You are.”

“Oh no you don’t. My grandmother will kill me if she thinks I made the icing for her precious cookies. And I’ve never made it.”

The scorn on Tim’s face was withering. He held up his fingers. “It’s three ingredients, Vic. There are industrial mixers here. Even you can’t screw it up.”

“Then the soup is all on you, mister. I’ll oversee the portions, but don’t expect me to be dropping meatballs into hot pots of stock.”

“You might not have a choice, Vic. We’ll need every hand here tonight and—”

Tim’s back was to the kitchen door, so he didn’t see the Belmont Club’s master chef enter the kitchen until it was too late. But I did. I don’t know what I was expecting Chef Etienne Boulé to look like. Rotund, certainly. And maybe somewhere between Batali and Lagasse on the attractiveness scale. But I wasn’t prepared for the tall, elegant, silver-haired Frenchman who stood glowering down at us. And for the second time that day, I wished I’d worn a little black dress instead of a big white blouse.

Tim turned and slapped his hand to his chest. “Chef,
pardonnez-moi
, I didn’t see you.”

Chef Etienne’s face remained impassive. “Obviously. I take it you are from—”

“The Casa Lido restaurant.” I held out my hand and tried to smile Lacey style. “I’m Victoria Rienzi.”

Though he didn’t kiss my hand, he did treat me to a bit of French. “
Enchanté, mademoiselle,
” he said, and I
stifled the urge to giggle. Tim frowned again and stepped in front of me, grabbing Chef Etienne’s hand. “Chef, it’s an honor. I’m Tim Trouvare, sous chef at the Casa Lido.”

“That remains to be seen,” Etienne said. He looked around at the miles of empty counter space. “I suppose I will have to find a place for you and your staff to work.”

“Yes, if you please,” Tim said, and I half expected him to drop to his knees with the request.

Chef Etienne crossed his arms and lifted his chin. “It cannot be done until my staff arrives. They have precedence, you understand? And how many do you bring, besides the
mademoiselle
?” He inclined his head in my direction, and I took note of his heavy-lidded dark eyes and full mouth. Despite the silver hair, he couldn’t have been much over forty. He frowned slightly, and I realized he caught me staring.