Free A Dish Best Served Cold: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (Italian Kitchen Mystery, An) by Rosie Genova Page A

laugh about today.”
    I kept heading east, toward my cottage and the rides pier. At one point, the red beach trolley chugged past me, and I waved to the driver. The trolley up and running was a good sign, even if there weren’t any passengers at the moment. In the distance I could see the roof of the carousel house and the top of the Ferris wheel, unmoving.
    As I got closer, I saw the yellow police tape around the carousel house, an elaborate nineteenth-century structure, its copper roof now an oxidized green. The building’s circular form was decorated with small windows framed in neoclassical designs of vines and leaves. Over each window was a mythical face, whose stark expressions frightened me as a child. It was jarring to see that tape. The carousel house wasn’t a place for death; it was a place of magic and history. And it struck me that Mayor McCrae would now have a perfect excuse to sell the carousel. Who would bring their children to a place where a man had died?
    I walked over to where my brother and a few other cops were milling around. He stepped away from them, his face grim. Possibly he wasn’t thrilled that I was here.
    I pointed to the tape. “Does that mean it’s a crime scene?”
    “No, it means nosy people should keep out.”
    “C’mon, Danny—spill. Do they think Pete’s death is suspicious or not?”
    “You know the answer to that, sis. We won’t know anything until—”
    “The autopsy results come in,” I said. “Right. I know the drill. But that doesn’t mean that you boys in blue might not have some theories.”
    “Vic, he was a drunk. He was elderly and unsteady on his feet even when he was sober. There’s nothing to suggest that his death was anything but an accident.”
    “So, what do
you
think happened to him, Detective?”
    “I think he drank too much and passed out, and either hit his head or drowned in shallow water. Hey, he might have had a heart attack, for all we know.”
    “But what was he doing here in the first place?”
    “Probably for shelter. Somewhere to get out of the storm.” He crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at me. “Don’t you have a book to write or something?”
    I held up my hands in surrender. “I’m going. I need to check on the cottage anyway. I had some water in the basement. Hey, is Sofia in the studio today?”
    Danny pushed his cap back and stuck his face close to mine. “Why? What do you need Sofia for?”
    “Geez, can’t a girl visit her sister-in-law without inviting suspicion? I want to let her know about the water in the basement of the cottage.”
    Danny smirked in a way that had annoyed me since I was eight and he was eleven. “Right,” he said. “And Pop’s horse is gonna come in at Monmouth later today.”
    “Stranger things have happened, brother,” I called over my shoulder. I took a last look at the carousel house. Too bad I couldn’t get in there to look around. But what would I expect to find that the police hadn’t? Any evidence was already bagged, noted, and safely stowed away at the station.
Stop spinning tales, Vic,
I told myself.
Or at least save them for your books
. Poor Stinky Pete shouldn’t have been out in that storm, period, and his death was likely an accident.
    In another ten minutes I was at my cottage, where the first thing I did was throw open the windows for some sea air. While I never minded the musty smell of the shore, it was on the strong side this morning, and there were still a couple of inches of water in my basement. But sitting in a dry corner was a shiny new sump pump; taped to its side was a note in my dad’s handwriting:
Who loves ya, baby?
I smiled at the thought of my ever-optimistic dad buying me a sump pump I couldn’t use without electricity. But I guess it was the thought that counted.
    Luckily, my stove and hot water were fueled by gas. I’d have warm showers and I could heat restaurant leftovers, assuming that old generator would hold out and the restaurant could still