Read A Dish Best Served Cold: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (Italian Kitchen Mystery, An) for Free Online

done to yourself, lady? You look amazing. And that’s a statement dress if I’ve ever seen one.”
    As the proprietress of the Seaside Apothecary, our natural pharmacy, Iris was a well-known figure in town. But that figure was transformed. Gone was her long graying hair; gone were the hippie clothes and Birkenstock sandals. For years Sofia had threatened to give Iris a makeover, but somebody else had gotten to her first. And he was wearing an expensive designer suit.
    “It was time for a change,” she said, her face pink. “Victoria, do you know Richard Barone?”
    I reached out a hand. “No, but I know that your foundation does wonderful work in the community.”
    “You’re very kind, Victoria,” he said. “It’s so nice to meet you at last.” He clasped my hand. “Iris talks so much about you and about your work as Vick Reed. And I confess I wasn’t a mystery fan until Iris gave me a copy of your latest. Well done.” He smiled, his teeth a flash of white against his dark beard and mustache. My hand was growing warm in his, and I could feel my cheeks follow suit. Barone exhibited a smoothness and charm particular to certain Italian men—Tim had it, and so did my dad. And so, certainly, did Richard Barone. It was easy to see why Iris was smitten and why she’d gotten that dramatic makeover.
    “Thank you,” I said. “Listen, I’m supposed to be reminding you that the antipasto course is being served.”
    “We’ll go find our seats,” Iris said, taking Richard’s hand.
    *   *   *
    “Hey, who’s the hottie?” Flo asked from behind me.
    “Richard Barone,” I said, “head of the Barone Foundation.”
    “Nice,” she said, nodding. “Bet he’s got a buck or two.”
    “Yup.”
But he’s a heartbreaker,
I thought. A category of men with which I was a bit too familiar.
    As the guests finished their antipasto, Lori, Florence, and I stood near the kitchen door waiting to start the dinner service. “Hey, Lori,” I said. “Are we about ready to serve?”
    “If we’re not, we oughtta be,” she said. “That wind is coming in stronger every minute.”
    “But your grandmother don’t wanna rush nobody, never mind the weather,” Florence said. “Hey, Bright Eyes,” she barked into the open kitchen window. “That pasta course plated yet?”
    Chef Tim, aka “Bright Eyes,” answered with uncharacteristic good humor, “Just about, beautiful. Give us another two minutes, okay?”
    “You got it, Chef,” she answered.
    Tapping my foot nervously, I wondered where Cal was. Maybe the impending hurricane had kept him away.
Or maybe you’re being stood up?
But I broke into a smile when I saw a man walking across the parking lot. Was my date here at last? I squinted to get a better look at our visitor.
    “Oh no,” I said, pointing to the stumbling figure. “And I thought the storm was the worst thing we’d contend with tonight.”
    Lori put her hands on her hips and frowned. “You’ve
got
to be kidding me.”
    Alyssa joined us, her arms full of dirty plates. “Oh my goodness,” she said, her blue eyes wide.
    For there, in all his tattered glory, was Stinky Pete himself, heading straight for us.
“La festa!
La festa!”
he shouted, raising both arms in a celebratory (though shaky) gesture, repeating the phrase until he reached the garden. “Are we all having fun?” he asked no one in particular. As he stumbled among the tables, the guests smiled in a frozen manner or pretended not to see him. And more than one nose wrinkled at his pungent presence.
    “Dov’è il vino?”
Pete called out. “Where is the wine? A man must celebrate at
la festa
, no?”
    It was only a matter of time before Pete spotted the bar table. I hurried to where my father and grandmother were chatting with guests. My grandmother frowned at the interruption, until I tilted a head in Pete’s direction.
    Nonna clasped her hands together. “Oh
Dio
,” she said. “Not tonight, of all nights.”
    “Daddy, you have to