Death of an Italian Chef Read online

  DEATH OF AN ITALIAN CHEF

  Randy slowly turned his head toward Hayley. “She doesn’t believe me. She’s not going to do anything.”

  “Let’s just wait and see,” Hayley said, moving closer to the bed. “It’s her job. She’s a police officer.”

  “I wish Sergio was here,” Randy lamented. “He would investigate.” He then reached out and grabbed Hayley’s hand and squeezed it. “Will you do it?”

  “Will I do what?”

  “Find out who came in here last night and killed Chef Romeo! I did not dream this, Hayley! He was murdered!”

  She could see him starting to stress out.

  His blood pressure and heart rate began rising on the digital monitor next to the bed.

  She just needed to calm her brother down, and she knew there was only one way to do that.

  “Yes, Randy, I will find whoever did this. I promise.”

  She just hoped it was a promise she could keep . . .

  Books by Lee Hollis

  Hayley Powell Mysteries

  DEATH OF A KITCHEN DIVA

  DEATH OF A COUNTRY FRIED REDNECK

  DEATH OF A COUPON CLIPPER

  DEATH OF A CHOCOHOLIC

  DEATH OF A CHRISTMAS CATERER

  DEATH OF A CUPCAKE QUEEN

  DEATH OF A BACON HEIRESS

  DEATH OF A PUMPKIN CARVER

  DEATH OF A LOBSTER LOVER

  DEATH OF A COOKBOOK AUTHOR

  DEATH OF A WEDDING CAKE BAKER

  DEATH OF A BLUEBERRY TART

  DEATH OF A WICKED WITCH

  DEATH OF AN ITALIAN CHEF

  Collections

  EGGNOG MURDER

  (with Leslie Meier and Barbara Ross)

  YULE LOG MURDER

  (with Leslie Meier and Barbara Ross)

  HAUNTED HOUSE MURDER

  (with Leslie Meier and Barbara Ross)

  CHRISTMAS CARD MURDER

  (with Leslie Meier and Peggy Ehrhart)

  Poppy Harmon Mysteries

  POPPY HARMON INVESTIGATES

  POPPY HARMON AND THE HUNG JURY

  POPPY HARMON AND THE PILLOW TALK KILLER

  Maya & Sandra Mysteries

  MURDER AT THE PTA

  MURDER AT THE BAKE SALE

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.

  DEATH of an ITALIAN CHEF

  LEE HOLLIS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  DEATH OF AN ITALIAN CHEF

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2021 by Rick Copp

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  The K logo is a trademark of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-2497-7

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2498-4 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-2498-4 (ebook)

  Chapter 1

  Randy stabbed at a clam nestled in his plate of linguini and then popped it in his mouth. He chewed and swallowed it, and then put down his fork and sat back in his chair, discomfited.

  Hayley, who was twirling a healthy portion of her spaghetti carbonara onto her own fork, instantly noticed. “You okay, Randy?”

  Randy nodded, tiny beads of sweat beginning to form on his brow. “Yeah, I’m just feeling a little under the weather.” He placed the palm of his hand to his forehead. “I hope I’m not coming down with something. I knew I should’ve gotten that flu shot at my last physical.”

  Bruce gulped down a glass of red wine. “Well, you can’t get sick now. You need to look after my wife while I’m out of town.”

  Hayley picked up her glass of chardonnay to wash down her pasta and smiled. “You know, Bruce, it’s a remarkable thing, really, but before we got married, I actually was quite adept at looking after myself whenever you weren’t around.”

  Bruce chuckled and then opened his mouth wide to take in a large spinach-filled ravioli. He snapped his mouth shut like a crocodile, closed his eyes, and moaned rapturously. “Oh, that’s good.”

  They were dining on a Saturday night at Bar Harbor’s newest Italian hot spot, Romeo’s, owned and operated by its namesake Chef Romeo—no last name, just Romeo—which was part of his shtick, apparently, although officially he claimed that according to his birth certificate his full name was Romeo Russo. A self-described world-class chef by way of Naples, where his family emigrated from in the 1950s and New York, where he lived most of his life, Romeo was a portly, gregarious, loud, larger-than-life character fond of big, crushing bear hugs whenever he greeted his guests. He had taken Bar Harbor by storm from the moment he first blew into town. His restaurant had only been open a few weeks now, but business was booming, mostly due to its simple, no-frills, but tasty, traditional Italian fare that the locals were eagerly lapping up. There was something in the marinara sauce, some kind of special ingredient that he claimed was his true secret to success. Romeo insisted his restaurant be a throwback, complete with checkered tablecloths, Chianti bottles with melting candle wax, and even an accordion player on Friday nights who would float through the restaurant playing “That’s Amore.”

  Randy lowered his hand from his forehead. “It doesn’t feel like a fever, but it’s awfully hot in here, don’t you think?”

  Bruce stopped eating and shrugged. “Seems okay to me.”

  Hayley looked at her brother Randy, slightly concerned. “Are you sure you don’t want us to drive you home?”

  “No, I’ve been going stir-crazy with Sergio back in Brazil for the next three months. I’ve really been looking forward to this dinner out all week.”

  Once a year, Randy�
�s husband, Bar Harbor police chief Sergio Alvares, made the long trek down to South America to visit with his family at their farmhouse outside Curitiba. Randy had considered leaving his bar, Drinks Like A Fish, in the capable hands of his manager Michelle and join Sergio like he had last year, but in the end he decided to stay home because he had not been feeling himself, and was afraid if he traveled, he might get sick.

  Bruce went to refill his wineglass, but Hayley snatched the wine bottle away before he had the chance. “It’s no fun flying with a hangover.”

  Bruce scoffed. “I’m not flying all the way down to Brazil to see Sergio, I’m just going to New York.” He gently extracted the wine bottle from Hayley’s grasp and poured himself some more.

  Bruce was leaving on an assignment for the Island Times, where he worked as the crime reporter. Normally his stories were exclusively local—house break-ins, bicycle thefts, domestic disturbances—but a high-profile court case in lower Manhattan was about to kick off, and it involved a wealthy summer resident on the island who had been accused of defrauding investors in her multimillion-dollar company headquartered in Manhattan. Given the massive public interest in the case, plus the fact that the defendant had a sprawling waterfront estate in Seal Harbor, and was known by just about everyone on Mount Desert Island, editor-in-chief Sal Moretti thought it might serve the community well if Bruce covered the story as it unfolded right where it was happening in the Big Apple. Bruce had jumped at the chance to go, excited about finally having a meaty, high-stakes story to write about.

  Hayley crinkled her nose in judgment as Bruce filled his glass to the rim and defiantly belted it back. “Come on, it’s my last hurrah,” Bruce said. “I have no idea how long I’ll be stuck down in New York.”

  Hayley turned to Randy and sighed. “Just listen to him. Stuck. Please, I’ve never seen him so excited to be covering a story. He can’t wait to get to New York City.”

  Bruce grinned. Just the mention of NYC had him buzzing and all keyed up.

  “Randy, you look pale,” Hayley said, frowning.

  Randy lifted his red cloth napkin off his lap and patted the sweat off his brow. “Maybe we should call it a night so I can get home to bed.” He dropped his napkin back down in his lap and pushed his barely eaten plate of linguini in clam sauce away from him.

  Lenny, a big, lumbering local kid working as a busboy at Romeo’s, suddenly appeared at Randy’s side.

  “All finished, sir?” Lenny asked.

  Randy nodded half-heartedly. “Yes. Thank you.”

  Suddenly, like the Tasmanian devil in a whirling burst of energy, Chef Romeo bounded up to the table after seeing Lenny clearing away Randy’s plate of food. “What’s going on here? He’s not finished with his dinner!”

  “He—he said he was,” Lenny stammered, obviously in fear of his thundering, frightening, gigantic boss.

  “But he’s barely touched it!” Romeo wailed. “What’s wrong with it? Too much garlic? I’ve heard that before from some of my customers, to which I always say: How can there be such a thing as too much garlic?”

  “No, it’s delicious, Romeo, I’m just . . .” Randy said, trying to avoid insulting the prickly chef. He then turned to Lenny. “You know what? Can you wrap that up for me to go?”

  “Yes, sir,” Lenny said, scooting away toward the kitchen with the plate of linguini.

  “It tastes even better the next day!” Romeo boasted.

  Romeo noticed Bruce scraping the last of the marinara sauce off his own plate with a spoon, causing him to break out into a wide, satisfied smile. “I love a man with a hearty appetite!”

  “Best ravioli I’ve ever tasted!” Bruce crowed.

  Romeo clapped his hands together, then his eyes dropped on Hayley’s plate, which still had a few remnants left of her spaghetti carbonara.

  Hayley threw her hands up in the air. “Before you say anything, it’s absolutely delicious! I just couldn’t possibly eat another bite. I probably shouldn’t have gorged on all the garlic bread earlier.”

  “What did you think of it? I bake the bread myself every day,” Romeo said.

  “Buttery perfection,” Hayley answered.

  Romeo eyed Hayley suspiciously. “Is that what you will write in your column tomorrow?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Hayley asked innocently.

  “Come on, Hayley, you can tell me,” Romeo said, leaning closer, his ample belly nearly moving the table a few inches. “Is this just a casual night out with your husband and brother, or is this a professional visit? Are you here to review my restaurant for the Island Times?”

  She was caught.

  There was no point in denying it.

  Hayley nodded sheepishly.

  “I knew it!” Romeo exclaimed, pounding his fist in the palm of his other hand.

  “Well, you can rest assured that my review will be glowing. Our entire experience here this evening has been nothing short of five stars,” Hayley promised.

  “Well, I am sure there is always room for improvement. I’ve had many haughty New York food critics remind me of that fact over the years,” Romeo said with a laugh. “So tell me, what didn’t you like?”

  Hayley sat frozen in her seat, suddenly put on the spot. “No, really, everything was—”

  “Come on! There has to be something!” Romeo roared.

  Hayley knew she could continue to dodge the question, or risk insulting the chef and be totally honest. It finally came down to the fact that he would never allow them to ever leave, even though the dining room was almost cleared out at this point, if she did not at least come up with something to lightly criticize.

  “Is my house salad dressing too salty and vinegary?”

  “No, it was perfect, and like Bruce said, the spinach ravioli was outstanding, world-class—”

  Romeo zeroed in on Hayley’s plate. “Aha! You’re focused on Bruce’s entrée, but what about your spaghetti carbonara? You’ve had better, haven’t you?”

  Hayley vigorously shook her head. “No, it—”

  “You can admit it! This helps me, Hayley! I’m always looking for ways to make my food better! I’m not one of those overly sensitive chefs who become personally offended if someone criticizes one of their specialty dishes even the tiniest bit!”

  “Okay,” Hayley sighed, finally giving up. “Although your spaghetti carbonara is without question very flavorful and yummy . . .”

  Romeo leaned in even closer, his round stomach right in front of Hayley’s face. “Go on . . .”

  “I like mine better,” Hayley squeaked.

  Romeo exploded. “What? You’re crazy!” He threw a pudgy hand over his heart as if a dagger had just pierced it.

  “I knew I should have kept my mouth shut,” Hayley muttered to Bruce and Randy.

  Romeo was on a tear. “That’s my great-great-grandmother Gabriella’s recipe, handed down for generations in Naples! There must be something wrong with your taste buds! You should go see a doctor!”

  Hayley knew the bombastic chef was half joking, but she could also tell he was clearly rattled by her comment, so she felt the need to blather on. “But again, your spaghetti carbonara truly is scrumptious—”

  “Don’t patronize me!” Romeo roared, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. “If you think my spaghetti carbonara is second-rate, you’re entitled to your opinion!”

  “I never said second-rate—”

  Lenny returned with a container wrapped in a plastic bag and set it down in front of Randy. “Here you go, sir.”

  “Thank you,” Randy said to Lenny before looking up at Chef Romeo, and in an attempt to diffuse the tension, picked up the bag of leftovers. “I cannot wait to devour this tomorrow. The clam sauce was exquisite.”

  Romeo just blew past the comment, remaining focused squarely on Hayley. “What are you doing on Monday?”

  “Working,” she said.

  “I mean after work!” Romeo shouted.

  “I—I don’t know . . .”

 
; “I want you to come here and make me some of your spaghetti carbonara right here in my kitchen!”

  “Oh, Romeo, please, I wish I had never said anything—”

  “But you must! If somebody makes better carbonara than my dear old departed great-great-grandmother Gabriella, well, then I need to know about it!”

  “The last thing I want to do is compete—”

  “It’s not a competition! I just want to find out what makes your spaghetti carbonara taste so special!”

  Hayley opened her mouth, ready to give the spiraling chef a definitive no, when suddenly he grabbed his busboy Lenny by the shirt and barked, “Bring them more wine and some cannolis on the house!”

  Well, that was it. There was no point in protesting any further, because Hayley was going to be preparing her own recipe for Chef Romeo Monday afternoon. If she knew one thing about herself, Hayley Powell knew she could easily be bought with a complimentary dessert and free-flowing wine.

  Chapter 2

  Hayley sat at her kitchen table, staring wistfully at her phone as Bruce and her daughter Gemma, who now lived and worked in New York City, breezed across Washington Square Park at dusk, the majestic arch at the foot of Fifth Avenue in the background, both their faces pushed in close in front of the camera phone.

  “I wanted to take him to an awesome spaghetti joint I’m obsessed with in Little Italy, but he said he’s had his fill of Italian lately, so we’re going to my favorite French place on Bleecker Street,” Gemma yelled into the phone. “Then we’re going to go see Conner’s show uptown.”

  Conner was Gemma’s fiancé, an up-and-coming Broadway actor who was currently enjoying success in a revival of Fiddler on the Roof playing the Russian student Fyedka, who romances the lead character Tevya’s daughter Chava. He had perfected a Russian accent, which he eagerly showed off to Hayley during a number of Zoom calls.