Lacey Luzzi: Sliced (Lacey Luzzi Mafia Mysteries Book 13) Read online

  “I don’t feel so good.” Meg rested a hand on her stomach. “I haven’t had a sugar bomb in ages. My tolerance is low.”

  “Rookie mistake,” I said. “Can you hold it together until we’re done with Hunter?”

  “Like I’d miss this.” Meg threw her car door open. “It isn’t every day I get to interview someone as famous as myself.”

  “Since when are you famous?”

  “Since your grandmother put my mug shot up on her Hall of Infamy.”

  “What did you do that earned you a mug shot?”

  “Which time?”

  “Never mind.” I followed Meg out of the car and into the building for Channel 87. “I’m not sure Hunter Arquette is as famous as you think he is. I’ve never even heard of Channel 87 before.”

  “Have you ever been interviewed by Channel 87?”

  “No. I just told you I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Then I guess Hunter is probably more famous than you. Sorry, chickadee. Your fifteen seconds in the spotlight will come. It’s only those with true star power—like yours truly—whose run at fame lasts longer than fifteen minutes.”

  “You sure are memorable,” I agreed. “Did Clay say where Hunter would be when you talked to him?”

  “Hunter doesn’t go on air for another two hours,” Meg said. “I’ll bet you the makeup artists are still making him pretty.”

  Thanks to Clay’s intel, Meg and I had pinpointed Hunter Arquette’s location to a little studio in Northeast Minneapolis. It was an obscure television station that didn’t seem to broadcast anywhere in particular. Apparently, Hunter was slotted for an early afternoon on-air interview. If we were lucky, we’d be able to corner him in the makeup chair for our own version of an interview before his official one.

  “Excuse me? Um, excuse me?” A slim receptionist tucked a pen behind his ear and stood behind the counter. “Excuse me—where do you think you’re going? Please sign in at the front desk.”

  “Oh, sorry—”

  My apology was interrupted as Meg spun around and stuck a hand on her hip. “Are you seriously asking me to sign in? Do you not know who I am?” Meg flipped her hair over her camo vest and looked at me. “Did he just ask me who I am?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, not sure if I was apologizing to Meg or to the receptionist. “I don’t—”

  “Where is your boss?” Meg asked. “When I agreed to do an interview, I expected people would know who I was.”

  “You’re... a guest?” The receptionist paled. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t aware—”

  “I have a makeup appointment with Claude. My interview is with Heidi.”

  “Sure, of course. Claude will be waiting for you,” the receptionist said. “I didn’t realize Heidi had an interview today. My apologies.”

  “That’s right, you’re sorry.” Meg gave a harrumph and stomped off.

  I gave a quick, awkward finger wave to the stunned receptionist.

  “I can’t believe that worked,” I whispered to Meg. “You don’t really have an interview with Heidi today, do you?”

  “Of course not,” Meg said. “But if you act confident enough, people will believe anything you say.”

  “But—”

  “It worked on you, didn’t it?”

  “Good point,” I said. “But how did you know the right names to use?”

  “I watch Channel 87 every day,” Meg said. “Duh.”

  I was still processing the turn of events as we weaved through the narrow studio hallways. I admired Meg’s chutzpah not for the first time. Then she turned, selected one of three doors at the end of the hallway, and raised a hand to knock.

  “If this isn’t a popular station, why do they bother doing hair and makeup?” I asked. “Why do they have a Claude?”

  “Everyone needs a Claude,” Meg said. “And this station is popular—among the cool kids.”

  With that, Meg let us into the makeup room. Hunter Arquette sat before a Hollywood style mirror with glowing bulbs affixed to all four sides. Before him perched a man who could only be Claude. A woman sat next to Hunter reading from a sheet of paper. All three looked up at the intrusion.

  “Howdy,” Meg said. “We’re basically detectives, and we’re here to ask Hunter a few questions. Can we have a minute alone with him?”

  “Please,” I added.

  “Do you know them?” The woman asked to Hunter. “What’s this about?”

  Hunter’s eyebrows knitted together. “I don’t know. And I don’t know.”

  The woman gave a dramatic sigh. “I don’t have time for this crap. Just don’t say anything stupid on air, okay? I think we’re done here. I need coffee.”

  Hunter nodded, but it didn’t seem like he’d actually heard much of anything. His gaze was fixed on us. “Is this about Amelia?”

  I nodded. “I’m afraid it is. Sorry for your loss.”

  “Claude, give us a few minutes?” Hunter flicked his fingers. “This won’t take long.”

  “I don’t have a few minutes,” Claude said, tucking a long, chunky strand of black hair behind his ears. “I’m behind already, and your nose... needs help.”

  “My nose...” Hunter’s hand came up. “I just had it done. Again.”

  “That’s the problem,” Claude said. “Cut off any more pieces, and I’ll be calling you Michael.”

  Hunter winced and began examining himself in the mirror.

  “I don’t care what you did or who they are,” Claude said, tipping his head in our direction. “They just pay me to make you look good. Go on, talk. I won’t say a word to anyone else.”

  Hunter heaved a sigh.

  Claude smacked him. “Don’t sigh so much. It cracks your foundation.”

  “Fine,” Hunter said through clenched teeth. “What do you want? And who are you?”

  “Private investigators,” I said. I flipped my badge for him to see.

  He started to turn his head, but Claude smacked him back and forth again.

  “Sit still,” he commanded.

  Hunter obeyed and gazed straight ahead. “It doesn’t matter who you are, anyway. I don’t have anything to hide. The police already talked to me, thanks to that idiot.”

  “What idiot?”

  “Susie,” he said, as if I should’ve known the answer. “She sent you to me, didn’t she?”

  “Oh,” Meg said knowingly. “So, you’re Amelia’s psycho ex, then?”

  “What?” Hunter looked genuinely surprised. “No, I’m Susie’s ex.”

  I blinked. Meg blinked. Hunter blinked.

  “What?” Meg and I said in unison.

  “Susie and I dated a year ago. She broke it off after she befriended Amelia.”

  “Why’d she break it off?” I asked. “Did she tell you?”

  “She gave me the whole spiel... it’s not you, it’s me.” Hunter shook his head to the chagrin of Claude. “But I know that’s not why. It’s because of the competition.”

  “What about the competition?”

  “I had just gotten wind of the fact that I was being considered for the judge’s panel for the competition,” Hunter said. “Susie had just started hanging out with Amelia, and they were starting to talk about teaming up. It would have been a conflict of interest for me to be dating a contestant.”

  “Ah,” I said. “Either you wouldn’t have been able to judge, or she wouldn’t have been able to bake.”

  “She wouldn’t have been able to bake,” Hunter confirmed. “There was no question about me being the judge.”

  “Well, cripes,” Meg said. “If you really loved her, you could have turned down the judge’s job.”

  “She didn’t care enough to give me the chance,” Hunter said. “She dumped me before I was even selected. There were still seven other people they were considering as judges. She’s the psycho.”

  “Are you telling me that you didn’t date Amelia?” Meg asked. “Because that article in the newspaper this morning...”

  “Amelia and I
were friends,” Hunter said. “The rumors are just that—rumors.”

  “How’d you meet Amelia?”

  “I was teaching a breadmaking class, and she was in it,” Hunter said. “Amelia was a great student. We grabbed lunch a few times once class was over. That’s it.”

  “Did Susie know about these lunch dates?”

  Hunter glared at me. “Yes, she did. The three of us hung out sometimes... until she dumped me for the competition.”

  “Speaking of... I’m entering the competition, too,” Meg said. “I’m happy to suck up to you if that means you’ll give me brownie points for my cookies. Or would that be cookie points?”

  “Please don’t,” Hunter said. “Don’t suck up to me.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Meg said. “I’ll get back to you.”

  “As a judge, will you let the show go on now that there’s been a murder?” I asked. “And will Susie be baking the recipe she and Amelia created?”

  Hunter raised his hands. “I voted to disqualify Susie and Amelia’s entry, but the other judges overruled me, two-to-one.”

  Claude cleared his throat. “Are you almost done? I need to work on his lips, and I can’t do that if his trap is wide open.”

  “It’s definitely time for me to go,” Meg said. “Those scones aren’t sitting right. Do you think it’s possible Susie poisoned me?”

  “Probably,” Hunter said. “She’s nuts.”

  “Well, we’re going to take off,” I said. “Thanks for your time, Hunter.”

  “Where to next?” Meg asked as we left the building. “Despite those scones, I’m pretty pumped.”

  “Then let’s keep moving,” I agreed. “What do you say we shake-down Frankie Linguine?”

  “First and foremost, I’d like nothing more than a bathroom,” Meg said, “and then I’d like nothing more than to pay a visit to little Frank.”

  Chapter 8

  It didn’t come as a surprise to anyone that Frankie Linguine owned a pizza place on the east side of St. Paul. This was especially convenient seeing as it was mid-afternoon, and Meg and I were getting hangry. As we pulled open the door to the shop, I caught a whiff of rising dough and spicy marinara—and breathed a sigh of relief.

  “What do you say we eat first then ask questions?” Meg suggested. “No sense asking questions on an empty stomach because I won’t be able to digest the answer. Probably won’t even be able to hear Frankie talking over the sound of my stomach rumbles.”

  “Sounds reasonable to me,” I agreed. “Plus, we should scope out the place first and get a feel for Frankie before we talk to him.”

  “I’d like to get a feel for Frankie’s pizza,” Meg said. “ASAP.”

  “Maybe don’t say that out loud.”

  “No innuendo,” Meg said. “I’m a happily married woman. I literally want my hands on Frank’s pizza.”

  I looked down at the menu to where Meg was pointing. The first dish was called Frank’s Pizza and featured all sorts of meats and cheeses and olives and vegetables.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Maybe I’ll have a Frank’s Pizza too.”

  Meg winked. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

  After ordering two Frank’s Pizzas, Meg and I took seats in a booth and waited for our order to arrive. Meg guzzled down a large root beer while I’d opted for a Diet Coke. The word diet was in it, so it had to be healthy. Ish. Healthy-ish.

  “Which one do you think is Frankie?” Meg asked. “Honestly, any one of these dudes could be him. I mean, heck, this could be the casting room at Channel 87 for a knock-off of the Sopranos.”

  I looked around and noted that Meg had a great point. Frank’s Pizza seemed to be run by a slew of men and women with a certain look. The men were all shiny, shiny, shiny dark hair, tanned skin, gold chains. The women were all puffy, puffy, puffy hair, thick mascara, and wads of chewing gum. It was like a bell choir of gum chomping.

  The waitresses wore frilly white aprons over black, skin-tight dresses that looked like a set of bad French maid Halloween costumes. The men donned black pants and starched white shirts. Both genders moved about in a sort of lackadaisical dance as they dropped off pizza and fries to most guests, and a couple of salads to a few brave souls. It was always risky to order a salad at a pizza joint, which was why I never bothered.

  Meg and I watched the servers move, our heads swiveling back and forth every time someone veered a little too close with a tray of pizza, fooling us into thinking it was ours. Some twenty minutes and a million stomach growls later, our pizzas were delivered. No sooner did the server put the tray down did Meg reach out to rest a hand on the woman’s arm.

  “Um, excuse me,” Meg said. “There’s a hair on my pizza.”

  “Pick it off,” I growled. “I’m hungry.”

  “It’s a big-ole hunk of hair,” Meg said, scrunching up her face. “Gross. Can I talk to your manager?”

  “Where’s the hair?” The waitress wrinkled her nose in return and leaned forward. “I don’t see a hair.”

  “I’m leaving a negative one-billion-star review on Yelp if I don’t get to talk to Frankie.”

  “Frankie?” The woman’s eyebrow raised. “Is there really a hair on your pizza?”

  “Yes,” Meg said firmly. “But it’s one of my hairs. Mostly, I wanted to talk to Frankie. But I also want to eat this pizza. Can you just get Frankie out here, and I will agree to not leave you a negative one-billion-star review?”

  The waitress snapped her gum. “Whatever. Frankie is in an awful mood, but you asked for it.”

  “I sure did,” Meg said proudly as she turned to me. “What’d you think of that?”

  I waited until the waitress had gone before responding. “Think of what?”

  “My little trick there.”

  “I think it didn’t work.”

  “But it did work, didn’t it? Isn’t she going to get Frankie?”

  “You probably could have just asked to speak with Frankie.”

  “That’s not very creative,” Meg said. “Hey, did yours come with a slice missing? Because I can complain about that, too.”

  I looked down, surprised to find that one monster slice had already disappeared. “No,” I said with a sigh. “I’m pretty sure I ate the whole thing. But it’s okay because breastfeeding probably burned that all right up, so I will probably have to have another one.”

  “Dang,” Meg said. “Sounds like having a baby is a great way to diet.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Except for the whole gaining-a-bunch-of-weight-to-have-the-baby part.”

  “Reconsidered,” Meg said. “Hey, is that Frankie?”

  I looked up to find one of the many Linguine men headed in our direction. Frankie, like the rest of the staff at the restaurant, wore black pants and a white shirt. But instead of slacks and a pressed shirt, he wore Adidas sweatpants and a plain white tee. To really dress things up he’d added a chunky gold necklace that thunked against his collarbone as he walked.

  “I guess the boss gets a free-dress card,” Meg said. “He owns this place, right?”

  “According to Clay’s intel, that’s right,” I said. “He inherited it from Frank Senior a few years ago. His dad wanted to retire and passed the family business down to his son.”

  “How sweet,” Meg said. “Hey, do you want to pull a hunk of my hair out and set it on the pizza to make this more believable?”

  “I think the jig’s up,” I said. “Let’s try just talking to him first.”

  “Novel idea,” Meg agreed. “Sure, we can start there and improvise if it doesn’t work.”

  “Who are you?” Frankie asked loudly as he came to the table. “And why do you wanna talk to me?”

  “Because you’re so charming,” Meg said. “And we love your pizza.”

  Frankie completely missed the sarcasm and nodded. “Yeah, I get that a lot. Food’s okay?”

  “Great,” I said. “Some of the best pizza I’ve ever had. My family loves to come here.”

  “Is
that right?” Frankie did a double take at me. “Wait a minute. Aren’t you a Luzzi?”

  “I am,” I said.

  “Me too,” Meg said. “I married into the family.”

  “Frighteningly enough, that’s true,” I said. “Anyway, we were hoping to chat with you for a few minutes.”

  “What happened to Anthony?” Frank’s eyes widened. “Anthony’s usually the one who comes down here when we need ‘to chat’. But I swear, I didn’t do anything this time.”

  “You know Anthony?” I asked.

  “Lucky you,” Meg said. “Fun guy. Great sense of humor. Even better rear end.”

  Frankie looked at her like she was crazy. “Lucky me? The man’s terrifying.”

  Meg shrugged. “Probably what makes him so hot.”

  “This doesn’t involve Anthony,” I said, though I made a mental note to ask Anthony all about Frankie when I got home. If nothing else, the obvious fear in his voice had me intrigued. “My name is Lacey, and I’m looking into the death of Amelia.”

  “Oh.” Immediately, Frankie looked defeated. He sort of slumped forward and frowned. His face slid downward, and a hint of sadness slipped into his voice.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said. “I understand Amelia was someone important to you?”

  “Important to me?” Frankie looked miffed at the insinuation. “We were going to get married. Of course she was important to me!”

  “I’m so sorry,” I repeated. “We are hoping to get to the bottom of her murder. Would you be interested in having a seat so we can ask you a few questions?”

  Surprisingly enough, Frankie plopped right down. He was apparently familiar with the Luzzi family enough to know he shouldn’t ask any questions about why we were doing any sort of investigation in the first place. Either that, or he was too terrified of Anthony to risk us tattling on him. Not that I was complaining.

  “Tell us about your relationship with Amelia,” I said. “When and how did you meet her?”

  “It was the cannolis.”

  “What about cannolis?” Meg asked around a mouthful of pizza. “Who has cannolis?”

  “We do,” Frankie said miserably. “They’re Amelia’s recipe. She waltzed in here about two years ago looking all hot and gorgeous. She sat down—”