Part 3 (1/2)
And what was wrong with him that he felt so disappointed, as if all the suns.h.i.+ne had gone out of his life?
”Stan?” Angie called. ”Stan, are you listening? I try to think about other things, but my mind keeps reverting to the engagement party! I just don't know what to do anymore.”
”Let's go, Angie,” he said, so flummoxed he forgot that she was the one who promised to take him to lunch, and he threw money on the table. ”You need to get home so you can concentrate better.”
”Maybe you're right. Wait, what about my ouzo?”
He didn't answer as he helped her from the chair and hurried her out of the restaurant, leaving Angie to wonder what in the world had come over him.
Chapter 4.
The next morning, Angie was sipping her morning coffee and reading the newspaper about the murder of Sh.e.l.ly Farms, who she was shocked to learn had really been named Sherlock, when the phone rang. As she reached for it, she couldn't help but think anyone named Sherlock probably would grow up with either great compa.s.sion for those who had misfortunes from birth, or would become a serial killer.
”h.e.l.lo, this is Diamond Pastry,” said a very slow-talking woman with a high, nasal voice. Angie was about to laugh-it had to be her friend Connie imitating Ernestine the Operator: One ringy-dingy. Before she could say anything, the woman continued, ”Is this the Amalfi residence that ordered the purple cake?”
Angie's throat closed so tightly she could barely squeak out the words. ”Purple cake?”
”Uh...sorry to bother you, ma'am, but we're here at Diamond Pastry-”
”I know, I know. Tell me about the cake. Is it a big cake? Like...an engagement-party-size cake?” Please, G.o.d, don't let Serefina have ordered a purple cake for me.
”You see, ma'am, the lady who ordered, the phone number got wiped out when a big blob of chocolate frosting dropped on the order form. Not that we usually toss around chocolate frosting...well, sometimes. But I don't want you to get the wrong impression of our bak-”
”Don't worry about it!” Angie jumped to her feet, clutching the phone tight. ”Is the cake for a party on May fifth?”
”Uh...oh. You won't believe it, but the other baker just found what we need. Everything's okay now. I'm so sorry to have disturbed you, ma'am.”
”Wait!” Angie shrieked. But the connection had already been broken.
It couldn't have been Serefina, Angie told herself as she paced back and forth across the living room. There were lots of Amalfis in the city. Oodles of them. Some weren't even relatives.
Any one of them could have ordered a purple cake for a variety of reasons...couldn't they?
She pressed a hand to her forehead. What if her engagement cake was purple? What if the entire decor for the party was purple? Her beautiful Dior dress was yellow.
Yellow and purple together would remind people of Easter-and she'd end up looking like a baby chick!
She collapsed onto a chair, stricken. The only solution was either to find out what color her cake was, or to change the dress to be on the safe side.
Using the caller ID feature on her phone, she saw that the pastry shop was listed as ”PRIVATE.” Odd. Nevertheless, she hit the redial b.u.t.ton and got the same slow-talking woman. ”Diamond Past-”
”This is Angie Amalfi. Can you tell me-did my mother, Serefina Amalfi, order the purple cake? Is she your customer?”
”Uh...I don't know. I don't think I can tell you, anyway.”
Angie really hated this privacy mania. ”Can you tell me if it was for a cake on May fifth?”
”I'm sorry, ma'am, but I just don't remember the date. I can tell you that it was a big cake. Real big. And it has big yellow flowers on it. They take time with all the petals-”
Angie hung up. Yellow flowers? Her worst fears were coming true. The good news was that the flowers would match her dress.
The bad news was that her party was going to look like a giant Easter egg hunt.
Paavo walked into Moose's Restaurant. Slightly upscale and with Italian cuisine, it was on Was.h.i.+ngton Square in North Beach, catty-corner to St. Peter and Paul's Church where Angie went to ma.s.s.
The maitre d' asked if he was there to see Mr. Amalfi, and when Paavo answered in the affirmative, he was led to a private room in the back. Either Salvatore didn't want to be seen with him, or didn't want to be seen, period.
He had no idea what this meeting was about. More than once, a bribe to break the engagement crossed his mind. He hoped he was wrong.
”Sal,” he said, holding out his hand.
Angie's father stood, and the two shook hands warily. Sal was nearly six feet tall, but thin and somewhat frail due to a heart condition. His hair was gray, and he had a small gray mustache. His eyes weren't the dark, rich chocolate brown of Angie's, but were lighter with flecks of green. When he spoke, he had a slight Italian accent. ”Thanks for coming,” Sal said. ”Sit. I told the chef to bring out a few of his specialties. Whatever he thought was good. Is that okay with you?”
Paavo could see that Sal didn't want to waste time ordering. ”Sure,” he replied.
”Wine?” Sal asked.
”No, thanks. I'm on duty.”
Sal scowled. ”What, you don't drink?”
”Not when I'm on duty,” Paavo repeated.
Sal beckoned the waiter. ”A bottle of a nice chianti, per piacere. And?” He glanced at Paavo.
”Water's fine,” Paavo replied.
”Perrier?” the waiter asked.
Paavo nodded. Sal looked disgusted.
As the waiter turned, Sal called, ”I said I want wine that's 'nice'-not the most expensive.” He glowered in Paavo's direction. ”I'm the only one in the family who knows the value of a dollar.”
Paavo's jaw tightened. Was this going to be about money? How he didn't make near enough to support Angie in the style to which she was accustomed? ”Angie and I have reached an agreement about money,” he said firmly.
He had to wait for Sal's answer as a different waiter brought out sourdough bread and salad, and then the first reappeared for Sal to okay the wine choice.
When they were alone again, Sal said, ”Yeah, I know you and Angelina don't talk about money-you got nothing to talk about, right? Anyway, you got it wrong. I didn't ask you here to flap my gums about the two of you. There's nothing more to say. You both made that clear to me. I'm just the father. Why should I count, long as I pay the bills, right?”
Paavo chomped down hard on his tongue, but was rapidly losing the battle with himself.
”Anyway, you treat her good, keep her happy,” Sal said, ”and we'll be all right.” Despite the words, his tone dripped with doubt over Paavo's ability to do that.
”Fine.” Paavo's word was clipped and cold.
”This is something else,” Sal continued. ”Police business. Eat, then we'll talk.”