Free Murder and Marinara by Rosie Genova Page A

drifted from the kitchen to the bar. I was about to join them when I saw my dad, Tim, Massimo, and Cal crowded around a laptop screen. The Casa Lido bar did not have a television, so I assumed they were watching a baseball game. Until I heard a female voice coming from the screen.
    â€œWe’re here today outside the cottage where mystery writer Vick Reed, aka Victoria Rienzi, is on an apparent writer’s retreat . . .”
    Oh God
. Nina’s voice chirped on. “Ms. Reed, what can you tell us about the real-life mystery that’s unfolding right here in your hometown? Can you confirm that producer Gio Parisi was found dead behind your family’s restaurant?”
    â€œPause it right there,” Massimo said. “Ho, look at her. Like a frightened horse!”
    I stood behind them, straining to see the small screen. And there I was, looking just as Massimo had described me, rearing back from the microphone with my eyes rolled back until the whites showed, whinnying my “no comment” at the camera. I stared at my pale face, frozen by the pause button. My quick dabs of blush and lip gloss were no match for Nina’s artfully made-up face, and the contrast was so painful I winced.
    â€œPlay ’er again,” Cal said, and Tim and my dad chuckled.
    â€œI’m glad you’re finding this funny,” I said.
    Cal swung around on the barstool. “Lord, girl, you give a man a heart attack, sneakin’ up on him like that.” He patted his chest, and my eyes strayed to his broad hand, work worn and a bit beat-up. I hadn’t seen many hands like that in Manhattan.
    â€œYou might want to watch your choice of words there, ace,” I said. “What are you still doing here, anyway?”
    He lifted his beer in a toast. “Just having a friendly drink, ma’am.”
    My dad pointed to a spot of bare wood among the scrollwork on the bar. “Look at the work he’s done here, hon. He already stripped this whole section.”
    â€œThat ‘whole’ section, huh?” I shook my head. “At this rate, we will no longer be able to afford you, Mr. Lockhart.” I gestured toward the empty dining room. “And unless business picks up, we won’t even be able to pay the electric bill.”
    â€œC’mon, baby, things aren’t that bad,” my dad said.
    â€œYes, they are, Daddy.” I swept my hand across the empty dining room. “Do you see any full tables? In fact, do you see anyone at all?”
    â€œThe night is young, hon.” So said my father, player of long shots.
    When the door finally opened again around nine, I turned hopefully, but it was only Danny, wearing street clothes damp from the rain. But even off duty, Danny was never off the job. He flashed me a look as he came in; I sent him a silent question back, and he shook his head slightly. Did the headshake mean,
No, the autopsy results aren’t in yet
, or,
They’re in, but don’t ask me about them
?
    â€œSomethin’ smells good,” he said, giving me a quick kiss. “And I haven’t eaten.”
    I was about to tell him there was nothing cooking when the scent of sautéed onions wafted my way. Massimo emerged with a large black skillet, Nando behind him with a basket of bread.
    â€œMassimo, is that a frittata?” I looked at the Italian version of comfort food, a glorious golden omelet made with greens, cheese, herbs, and bread crumbs.
    â€œ
Sì, cara
. I make it with the arugula and fontina cheese. And we need to eat, do we not?” He shrugged. “And as we have no customers at the moment . . .”
    â€œAnd I don’t think we’re likely to have any.”
    Tim brought over plates and silverware while Massimo cut the frittata into wedges. We all squeezed around one table, passing the bread basket, suddenly aware of how late it was. As I was about to take my first bite, I had a discomfiting