The Wedding Soup Murder: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (3 page)

Before Tim could respond, I heard rapid-fire Spanish outside the kitchen doors, followed by some vociferous French. The voices grew louder, and though I couldn’t make out a word, it was clear there was a giant clash of cultures going on outside those doors. And other things, as well, judging by the clang and clatter of metal carts. Both kitchen doors opened at once, with our line cook, Nando Perez, manning one cart, and a short, dark man who appeared to be his French doppelgänger pushing the other. There wasn’t room for both carts, and neither guy would give way. Nando shouted in Spanish to Tim, while his twin spouted off in French to Chef Etienne.

“Remind your man that he is a guest in this kitchen,”
Etienne said through his teeth. “Antoine,
entrez, maintenant
!

“I am sorry, Miss Victor,” Nando said, still out of breath from his efforts. “But this one would not let me through.”

At that, Antoine scowled and made a hand gesture that is universally understood in all languages, causing Nando to let rip again in Spanish. Judging from his motions in my direction, he was loudly reminding Antoine that there was a lady present. In response, Antoine took my hand in his sweaty paw and pumped it up and down, all the while pleading his case in French.

Tim then pulled Nando to the side; Etienne did the same with Antoine, who only reluctantly released my hand. By this time, all four men were talking at once in three different languages. Just then, the doors swung open again to reveal the Casa Lido’s chef de cuisine, Massimo Fabri. Decked out in an Italian suit, he carried his chef’s coat over his arm. Looking around the kitchen as though he smelled something decomposing, he wrinkled his formidable nose and made his daily pronouncement.

“I cannot work under these conditions,” he said, tossing back his long hair. “I will not have this, you understand.”

Chef Etienne turned to face him. “
You
will not have this? And who are you, pray tell?”

“Who am I?” he roared, and then launched into angry Italian, adding yet another language to the discordant verbal symphony playing all around us. I headed
to the back to find Kate, but halted at the sound of the kitchen door opening behind me.

“What is this commotion? I thought I’d hired professionals, not children. I will not have this in my club, do you understand me?”

I swung around at the sound of her voice and came face-to-face with the Iron Lady herself—Elizabeth Merriman.

E
lizabeth Merriman
never raised her voice. She didn’t have to. Every word rang with authority and power, stopping us in our tracks. She was tall and broad-shouldered, and her iron gray hair formed tight curls around her head in a style that was popular fifty years ago. She had strong features, with high cheekbones and a long nose. Her gaze moved over us like a searchlight, but her blue eyes were clouded, and I wondered if she had cataracts.

Etienne, who had the least fear of her, stepped forward. “Please, pardon us, madame,” he said. “There was a small altercation, but I believe”—he stopped and frowned at Nando and Antoine—“that it has been settled.” He turned to Tim and Massi. “Has it not, chefs?”

“Yes, chef,” Tim said hastily. Massi merely crossed and arms and sniffed in an injured manner.

“It had better be,” Elizabeth said. She gripped a pearl-handled cane and pointed it at Tim and me. “And you people—I assume you’re from that restaurant in Oceanside, correct?” My eyes were drawn to
the large emerald ring she wore, as well as to her thick, reddened knuckles.
Arthritis,
I thought.
That ring will never come off.
“Well?” she asked sharply.

But before I could answer, Kate’s voice came from the dim recesses of the long kitchen. “Don’t hold your breath for an answer from those two, Elizabeth.”

Squinting, Elizabeth Merriman frowned in the direction of Kate’s voice. “Lurking back there, are you, Ms. Bridges? So you’re an eavesdropper as well as a troublemaker, I see.”

But it was clear she couldn’t
see
much at all; she wasn’t leaning on that cane because she was arthritic. She was using it to help her get around. When Kate’s only answer was a sneering laugh, Elizabeth turned her attention back to us. “Is one of you going to answer my question, or have you all been struck dumb?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Tim said. “I mean, no, we’re not dumb.” He shot her a blinding smile. “Well, we can talk anyway. We’re here from the Casa Lido.” With a respectful gesture to Massi, he said, “Our chef de cuisine, Massimo Fabri. And this is Victoria Rienzi, one of the owners, and that’s our line cook, Nando Perez.”

She nodded to Massi, and barely glancing Nando’s way, Elizabeth Merriman’s cloudy eyes landed on me. “So you’re a Rienzi, eh?” Peering at my dark blond hair and hazel eyes, she gave me a skeptical squint. Except for my olive skin, I probably didn’t look much like her idea of an Italian.

I nodded, but she said nothing further. If she’d heard of us, it had to be through the restaurant. It’s not
like anyone in my family hung out with WASP-y country-club presidents. “We’re here because—”

“I know why you’re here, young woman. The food we serve here isn’t quite to the liking of the Natale family. Apparently, they prefer a more
rustic
cuisine.” She gestured with her cane to Nando’s cart, on which sat the tightly wrapped stockpots and trays of meatballs. “Wedding Soup, indeed. Call it what it is: a peasant dish.”

I cringed at what I knew was coming. Chef Massi’s face reddened. Scowling furiously, he held out his hands, fingers and thumbs pinched in a universal Italian gesture. “You dare call my food
rustico
?” he shouted, rolling his R’s so hard that my ears rang. “Then I will take my leave of you.” With that, he lifted his chin and stalked out the kitchen doors.

“Well,” Elizabeth Merriman said, “there’s a classic Italian temper, if I’ve ever seen one.”

Tim heard my soft gasp and gave my arm a warning squeeze. Chef Etienne glanced in my direction, lifting one brow French-ily, as if to say,
She calls it as she sees it, mademoiselle.

“Ah, well, it doesn’t matter much,” Elizabeth said. “Peasant food or no, after this evening, Dr. Charles Natale will no longer be a member of this club anyway.” She rested one hand on the countertop, shifting her stare to Nando, who stood frozen with one hand still on the food cart. “Clear that cart at once, boy. That meat shouldn’t be sitting out like that.”

Except for a small tightening of his mouth, Nando
gave no response to the insult. But I was furious. So we serve peasant food. Our longtime line cook, a thirty-year-old man, gets called a boy. And now, thanks to Elizabeth Merriman, we were short a pair of hands in the kitchen. I shook off Tim’s hand, took a breath, and opened my mouth to speak. Chef Etienne moved his head only a fraction, but it was enough to make me close my mouth.

“Madame,” he said to Elizabeth, “this will be quite a busy night for you, no? Do you not trust me to run my kitchen the way I see fit?” He took her elbow and steered her toward the door. “I know that our . . .
guests
understand who is in charge.
C’est vrai,
madame?”

Elizabeth cocked her head, looking sideways at the chef. “
C’est vrai
, Etienne. So long as you understand who is in charge of the Belmont Country Club.”

As the cocktail hour came to a close, Tim and Nando swung into action. Working in the small space allotted them by Chef Etienne, they set the stock simmering; I stood behind with the escarole, trying not to look at the two hundred soup dishes lined up on the counter.

“How will we get this done without Massi, Tim?”

“Don’t worry, Vic. I got it covered.”

“Chef,” Etienne called out. “You must move more quickly. We will need every one of those burners for the second course.”

“Yes, Chef,” Tim called back, his arm moving like a machine from the tray of meatballs to the steaming pots. I winced each time he was splashed by the hot soup, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“Miss Victor,” Nando called, and I moved in, throwing handfuls of greens into the pot while he stirred. The kitchen was ungodly hot, and sweat trickled down the back of my neck. Chef Etienne had insisted I wear a chef’s coat and a hairnet. The net was as itchy as it was ugly, and my feet hurt from standing. But I tossed those greens like a bride throws her bouquet.
You wanted to learn, Vic,
I told myself, swiping an arm across my forehead.

Once the escarole was cooked through, we’d have to start plating. The servers began filing in, and as the door opened, I could hear Elizabeth Merriman barking orders at them. At the same time, Chef Etienne moved among his own staff, directing them in French, Spanish, and English, and periodically reminding Tim to hurry it up. As Nando and Tim began plating, I counted meatballs and followed with a clean cloth to wipe the edges of the plates. I exhaled only when the last server took the final tray of soup bowls out the door.

I went to the sink and splashed my face, only to have Tim plop a dirty stockpot inside it. “There’s more coming,” he said shortly. “And clear ’em out fast—they need the sinks.”

“Of course they do,” I said through my teeth. I was up to my elbows in suds, at the pinnacle of sweaty unattractiveness, when Lacey Harrison came into the kitchen bearing a tray.

“Hey, guys,” she said. “I have some food from the cocktail hour here.” She beamed at Tim. “I thought you might be hungry.”

He flashed the famous Trouvare grin and grabbed some canapés. “Thanks. Can you stay a minute?”

She shook her head. “I shouldn’t even be in here. Just didn’t want you to starve.”

She turned to go, and Tim put a hand on her arm. “Hey, Lacey, do you have a card or something?”

“I do, actually.” With that, she reached into the pocket of her green sheath and handed Tim a business card. “It’s got my cell and e-mail,” she said, her face growing pinker by the minute.

“Great.” Tim tucked it into the breast pocket of his coat and patted it. “Close to my heart,” he said.

He did not just say that,
I thought
,
and scrubbed the stockpot with unnecessary vigor.
Did you expect him to keep trying, Vic? After you made it clear you weren’t interested in getting back together?

“Bye, Victoria,” Lacey said. “Looking forward to the new book!”

“Thanks,” I muttered, wishing I’d ripped the hairnet from my head when I’d had the chance.

“Hey, Vic,” Tim called. “Nando will help me finish in here and then I’ll do the icing.” He came over to me and rested a heavy hand on my shoulder. “You need a break. You did great, by the way.”

“Your mood’s certainly improved.” I lifted his hand from my shoulder and unbuttoned the heavy coat.

“Here’s what you do,” he said, and handed me his charge card. “Go get yourself a drink and something to eat in the club bar. It’s full of that historic crap you love.”

“You just can’t keep that Cheshire cat grin from
your face, can you?” I plucked the card from his fingers. “But I think I’ll take you up on your offer.” I slid the card into the top of my blouse and gave my chest a little pat. “So it’s close to my heart,” I told him.

My first stop was the ladies’ room, where I washed my face and reapplied my eye makeup. I already had a bit of a tan, and all that soup steam had given me a natural blush. But my hair, stringy from the heat of the kitchen, was pretty hopeless. I dug a clip from the bottom of my purse and twisted it into a weak approximation of an updo. Not one my mother would approve of, but from the neck up, at least, I was presentable.

Though I was curious about the bar, I was absolutely dying to see the ballroom, and I’d promised Mom I’d say hello to Dr. Chickie and come back with all the details of the reception. (My parents had gone to the church, but neither could be away from the restaurant on a Saturday night.) I actually gasped upon entering the ballroom, my eyes immediately drawn to the Tiffany windows. The late-day sun shone through the rich colors of trees, flowers, and birds that gloriously ornamented the panes. Chandeliers glittered from the ceiling, and large sprays of fresh lilies decorated each table, no doubt designed to echo the Tiffany flowers etched in glass.

Well, Vic, if you ever do the deed, this is certainly the place to have a party.
At a certain point in my life, I was convinced I would get married, just like every other dutiful Italian daughter. But after things went so wrong for Tim and me, marriage grew more and more
distant on my personal horizon. At almost thirty-four, I didn’t see it happening for me, though it would be nice to have a man in my life. I would probably live out my days alone in Manhattan. I’d visit Jersey in the summer, write my books, and be a professional aunt to Danny’s kids. Hey, it was good enough for Jane Austen.

Glancing down at my wrinkled white blouse and spotted black skirt, I realized the servers in this room were better dressed than I was. But I wanted a closer look at those windows, and, yes, I was halfway curious about what kind of bride Roberta Natale made. The bride’s table was at the opposite end of the room, and I squinted. Could that tiny person in the white dress possibly be Roberta? If so, she’d dropped some pounds. It didn’t take long for me to spot Dr. Chickie, however, as his shiny bald head was visible at fifty yards. Mrs. Chickie, also known as Brenda, was an overpowering vision in teal blue as she hung on her husband’s arm.

“Victoria!” Dr. Chickie caught my eye and waved his arm. Brenda frowned and yanked his arm down, but she gave me a quick nod and smile. I made sure to smile back widely, as I always did when I ran into my old orthodontist, just to let him know that his work wasn’t for naught.

“Hi, Dr. Chickie,” I said, dropping a dutiful kiss on his cheek, and then another on Brenda’s. Children raised in Italian families must kiss
everyone
, no matter how old, young, hairy, or stinky they might be. At least the Natales smelled nice.

“Victoria, the soup was luscious, just luscious,”
Brenda croaked. Years of smoking had lent Brenda’s voice a froggy quality, and her wide, full-lipped smile only intensified the amphibian effect.

“I’m glad you liked it, Mrs. Natale,” I said.

She swept her arm across the room. “And how bee-you-tee-full is this place?” Her gaze stopped at one side of the room, where a bunch of the groomsmen were making loud toasts with their beers. Brenda shook her head and sighed. “A Scots-Irish my daughter has to marry.”

“He’s got a nice family, hon,” her husband said. “They’re just a little different from us, that’s all.”

“Well,” Brenda said, “Maureen—that’s his mother— is a lovely woman. She’s dealt with a lot.” She leaned closer to me. “She lost her husband not long ago. Cancer,” she said in a raspy whisper. Then she shook her head again. “And Dennis had that trouble a couple of years ago . . .” Her voice trailed off at a look from her husband.

“Dennis Doyle is a nice boy,” he insisted.

And a big one,
I thought, catching sight of the hulking, fair-haired guy at the head table. He was feeding the tiny Roberta bites of food, while she giggled and pushed his hand away.
God preserve me from lovebirds
. Suddenly conscious of my clothes, I looked for a way to politely escape, but Dr. Chickie grabbed my arm.

“Come say hi to Roberta. You won’t recognize her. She dropped a ton,” he said in a confiding voice.

In my periphery I could see the tall figure of Elizabeth Merriman, now dressed in a beaded gown. She was speaking to a tall man in dark glasses, their heads
close together. She’d never see me from that corner, but I didn’t want to take a chance. “I’d love to,” I said, “but I’m really not dressed for a wedding. I just wanted a peek at the ballroom. I should really get back.” But before I could take a step, there was Elizabeth, now frowning furiously in my direction. Leading with her cane, she headed straight for me.

“Young woman,” Elizabeth Merriman rapped out, “what do you think you’re doing out here among the guests?”

Though Dr. Chickie flinched, he gallantly stepped in. “Now, Elizabeth. Victoria is the daughter of an old friend. I was just bringing her over to say hello to Roberta.”

“She belongs in the kitchen!” Elizabeth tapped her cane on the floor for emphasis. “Not out here in my ballroom. She can say hello to Roberta some other time.” She squinted at Dr. Chickie, either because she couldn’t see him or wanted to intimidate him. “You’re lucky
you’re
here, Charles.” She gestured with her cane, narrowly missing my ankles. I stepped closer to Brenda, who was clinging to Dr. Chickie’s arm like a barnacle. “It’s only through my good auspices that you’re even on the premises, and don’t you forget it.” She cocked her head to one side, attempting to focus her cloudy eyes on the Natales.

Dr. Chickie tugged on his collar, as though it had grown too tight. Brenda was gripping his arm so hard her knuckles were white. And suddenly, my curiosity was on high alert. What was going on here? And then I remembered something Elizabeth had said back in
the kitchen: that after tonight, Dr. Natale would no longer be a member of the Belmont Club.

“Now, Elizabeth,” Dr. Chickie said quietly, his voice shaking, “this is not the time or place for this discussion.”

She leaned both hands on her cane and her mouth cracked in a tight smile. “You’re right about that, Charles. Because this discussion will be taking place in court, won’t it?” Still propped against her cane, she swung around to me. “You, girl, get back to that kitchen.” With that, she turned her back on us and made her slow way back through the guests.

“Listen, guys,” I said. “I should get out of here. I’ll try to catch Roberta another time. Would you mind pointing me to the bar?” But as neither of them was paying attention to me, I slipped out the way I had come, Elizabeth Merriman’s words echoing in my head:
This discussion will be taking place in court
.