Free Basil Instinct by Shelley Costa Page B

Miracolo has a life of its own. All the friendships among the staff.
    Leo, the mandolin player, offered that his hip had never been the same since he had a botched hip replacement five years ago. And Dana piped up that she had never been the same since Clinique stopped making Ruby Red lipstick five years ago, at which everyone else laughed, and she looked at them in wonderment. They all got more out of newbie Georgia Payne than I had success at finding out about women’s calfskin gloves, but it was fine by me.
    If the chemistry turned out to be as right as it seemed, maybe I would keep Georgia on after Friday night. Also Corabeth, who was looming over Paulette, with her big arms crossed, as my best server showed her the ropes. The big girl had shownan interest in the framed photos, alternately clucking and tsking, which endeared her right away to the band, and especially to Dana, when her glossy lips quivered at the shot of poor little Booger.
    Now that everybody was as nicely bonded as pomodoro sauce to rigatoni, I donned my white lightweight chef jacket and toque, schooled the servers on the specials, and took my post at my beloved Vulcan stove, the stove of the gods. Together we whipped up a northern Italian version of Olympian fare on a daily basis.
    Choo Choo opened the front doors at 5:30, and in they came. Into our Miracolo, this Angelotta sacred space with brick walls and black-painted woodwork and gleaming plank flooring and hanging globe chandeliers and impeccable white table linens and black votive candle holders. The first rush was always the after-work crowd hankering for drinks and antipasti. Then came the older diners, who preferred a nice settled meal followed by some nice settled digestion followed by a slow drive home.
    The last rush was the younger set, who dashed from one place for happy hour to another spot for tapas and finally to Miracolo for whatever I was dishing up that day—plus the experience, later, of whatever Dana Cahill and her band of Merry Men were offering up as entertainment.
    So there’s a kind of predictability about business hours at Miracolo.
    Which is why a murder just thirty-six hours later put an end to predictability—and to the life of one of our very own.
    *   *   *
    On Thursday, Maria Pia wore the apron she had hung up when I came on board, and she dominated the kitchen, prepping whatever she could in advance of serving her Belfiere sorority sisters a gorgeous meal of Scallop Fritters with Roasted Chioggia Beet Carpaccio, Sestri Salad with Grappa and Fig Vinaigrette, Saffron Risotto alla Milanese, Saltimbocca, Granita di Caffè con Panna, and Biscotti all’Anaci.
    Nonna was the queen of multitasking that day, not just overseeing the preparations, but doing them herself. Maybe she had no choice, considering that Landon seemed slow and preoccupied, and Georgia Payne had called to say she had lost a filling, had to make an emergency appointment with her dentist, and would be at Miracolo by 3 p.m. Amazingly, Nonna took it all in stride. She seemed to welcome the opportunity to make everything “alla Maria Pia.”
    When the Belfiere “La Maga” (Italian, apparently, for Big Kahuna), Fina Parisi, showed up,Earth did not actually grind to a halt in its orbit. While I brined the chicken for that evening’s entrée special, Maria Pia showed La Maga the plans for the dinner the following evening, and I was introduced to her briefly. If Nonna wanted to remind me that this woman was the daughter of “that strega ” Belladonna Russo, she resisted, settling instead for a meaningful look, which I always had a hard time telling apart from gas.
    Fina Parisi was in her late forties, slim, average height, with chin-length wavy black hair, a heart-shaped face, the kind of lips that show up in Estée Lauder ads, and dark blue eyes. She was gracious, stylish, and if I had to decide in a split second, I’d say I liked her. But then, I liked Joe Beck, so don’t go by me. Wearing a