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

  “Was she with anyone?” I asked. “Or did she come alone?”

  “She was by herself,” he said. “That’s one of the things that caught my attention. Gorgeous girl like her dining out all by her lonesome? Something wasn’t right with that.”

  “Did you go talk to her?”

  “Talk? Boy, did we talk. We talked for over two hours!” Frankie wiped his brow. “I comped her dinner. A good thing, too, because we kept talking even after that. She was telling me all about her baking, and I was telling her all about how much I loved dessert. It was like a match made in heaven.”

  “Like Lacey and coffee,” Meg added. “Or me and fabulousness. It just works.”

  “Sure,” Frankie agreed. “She invited me over to her house the next day for breakfast.”

  “Wow,” I said. “That’s pretty bold.”

  “I loved that about her. She didn’t take no for an answer. She wasn’t afraid of anything.”

  “Apparently not,” I agreed. “What happened at breakfast?”

  “She cooked me the most insane cannolis I’ve ever eaten in my life,” Frankie said, “and I’m Italian. I know my way around a cannoli.”

  “Have you ever been to Italy?” I asked.

  “Nope,” Frankie said.

  “Oh. Interesting.”

  Frankie plowed ahead. “I offered her money right then and there to come and bake for the restaurant.”

  “What’d she say when you solicited her sweets?” Meg asked. “That sounds sorta illegal to me when it’s phrased like that.”

  “Perfectly legal.” Frankie raised his hands and looked at me. “You tell Anthony that, alright? It was all perfectly legal.”

  “Fine,” I said.

  “We had a contract and everything,” Frankie said. “She created our dessert menu and cooked for us for a few months.”

  “Why’d she stop?” I asked.

  “Well, she wanted to work toward opening her own shop. She’d been in school for baking and whatever. We talked about bringing her on full time, but she wanted to do her own thing. So, she let us use her recipes from then on out, but she didn’t personally do the cooking. You know, like a license.”

  “Were you dating by this time?” I asked. “When did things get romantic?”

  “Things happened fast. We were dating a week after we met.”

  “That is fast.”

  “In the words of Ariana Grande—I see it, I like it, I want it, I got it,” Frankie said. “That girl gets me with her lyrics every time.”

  “She gets a lot of things, judging by that song,” Meg said. “But I like the theory behind it.”

  “How would you describe your relationship with Amelia?” I asked. “Was it loving? Good? Tough? Hot and cold?”

  “Definitely hot, hot, hot,” Frankie said proudly. “Super-spicy-jalapeno hot.”

  “Were you on again and off again?” I asked. “Did you ever take a break in the two years you were together?”

  Frankie’s eyes narrowed at me, then flicked to Meg. Then flicked back. “I know what this is about.”

  “Amelia?” I ventured weakly.

  “Those stupid rumors,” he said. “That idiot never dated my girl.”

  “Which idiot?” Meg asked. “Seems like we’ve encountered a lot of idiots today.”

  Frankie thought on that for a moment, as if trying to decipher whether he was looped into that category or not.

  “No offense,” Meg said gently, patting his hand.

  Frankie relaxed. “None taken. There are lots of idiots out there.”

  “Lots,” I echoed.

  “That idiot Hunter,” Frankie specified. “Saying he’s best friends with Amelia! What a load. He’s just doing it for a publicity stunt.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Everything that idiot does is a publicity stunt,” he said. “I heard he was dating a girl and broke up with her just so he could be a judge.”

  Meg and I shared a look. That sounded accurate from the information we’d gathered. Except according to Hunter, Susie had dumped him and not the other way around.

  “Him suddenly jumping into the rigamarole around Amelia is just his way of nudging his big, fat, chopped-up nose into the spotlight. Hunter’s milking Amelia’s death for all it’s worth. Tell me, if they were best friends, why hadn’t I met Hunter before? Why aren’t there pictures of the two of them? He’s making it all up.”

  “That does seem suspicious,” I agreed. “Did Amelia ever talk about Hunter?”

  “No,” he said. “I mean, she might have mentioned his name or something when she was telling me who got elected to be judges for the baking competition, but there was nothing personal about it.”

  “That does seem odd,” I said. “Something, somewhere is off. Someone’s lying.”

  “It ain’t me,” Frankie said. “You be sure Anthony knows that. Because I know what he does to people when they’re lying.”

  Meg fanned herself. “Is that right? Tell me more.”

  “I thought she was married to Anthony,” Frankie said, nodding at me. “Not you.”

  “I don’t have to be married to Anthony to appreciate his torture tactics,” Meg said. “I’m always looking for some wholesome inspiration.”

  “It ain’t very wholesome,” Frankie said. “Most people are afraid he won’t leave them whole at all. Quite the opposite.”

  “Possibly accurate,” Meg said. “He does have a big... gun.”

  Meg elbowed me. I ignored her. She elbowed me again.

  “Yeah, I get it,” I said. “Thanks for that.”

  “Just curious if you’ll confirm or deny my theory?” Meg said. “A girl wonders...”

  “Thanks for this, Frankie,” I said. “And again, I’m really sorry for your loss. I know it’s hard to lose someone you love.”

  Frankie nodded sadly. “I’d do anything to bring her back.”

  “I understand,” I said. “Trust me. But we are doing everything we can to honor her memory and find the killer.”

  “And win the bake-off,” Meg said. “If I win the bake-off, I’ll say it’s for Amelia.”

  “You’re a baker?” Frankie looked surprised. “Of what?”

  “All sorts of things,” Meg said. “Cake, cookies, special brownies. Kidding. Kidding on that.”

  “Thanks for the pizza,” I said, sliding my card over. “Can we give this to you?”

  “It’s on me,” Frankie said. “The least I can do for your help in finding Amelia’s killer. And also because the Luzzi family never pays at ole Frankie’s.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because,” Frankie said, and that was answer enough.

  “We might be back to ask you a few more questions,” I said. “If that’s okay?”

  “Anytime,” Frankie said. “Anything to find Amelia’s killer. I don’t know who could have wanted her dead. She was the sweetest thing.”

  “Was there anyone who didn’t think so?” I asked. “Any enemies she might have had?”

  “No enemies,” Frankie said. “It was impossible not to like her. I suppose someone could’ve gotten jealous, maybe. I mean, that Hunter guy’s pretty cold to be capitalizing off someone’s murder. And I don’t know about her friend Susie—they seemed close enough, but now that my baby’s out of the competition, Susie is going to get all the credit. For an idea that was Amelia’s from the start.”

  “Was there any drama between Susie and Amelia?”

  “Not that I know of.” Frankie shrugged sadly. “But then, what do I know? I obviously didn’t know much of anything because someone wanted her dead, and I was oblivious to it. Amelia’s death was no accident—and that’s the only thing we can all agree on.”

  Chapter 9

  After we finished up at the pizza shop, Meg and I made our way back to Carlos’s estate. She dropped me off at my car, barely coming to a complete stop.

  “Cripes,” I said through the window as she continued rolling ahead. “You’re supposed to
stop when you’re letting off a passenger.”

  “You’re on a diet,” Meg said. “You need exercise. Walk and talk, sister.”

  “Where are you in a rush to get to?”

  “Work,” Meg said. “I’m a businesswoman, remember?”

  “Not really. Seems like you work less and less hours.”

  “But the bar brings in more and more money,” Meg said. “So, something’s working, I’d say.”

  I idly wondered if it was Meg’s absence that made Shotz even more popular, but I dismissed the thought quickly. It was probably due to the fact that she’d promoted Julio to a managerial role, and he was more than capable of running the place. Meg, meanwhile, reaped the reward of owning a successful business.

  “Have fun,” I said. “Tell Clay I said hello.”

  “When are you free?”

  “Free?”

  “To be my assistant,” Meg said. “Your taste-testing duties begin now. The semi-final is tomorrow, and I need some help.”

  “Help with what? Putting the finishing touches on?”

  “Or starting from scratch.” Meg shrugged. “I’m counting on a stroke of genius. I’ve got a lot of genius in me, so it shouldn’t be too hard for one tiny little epiphany to strike.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Sure. Whatever. My stomach is up for grabs after Bella goes to bed tonight. I’ve got a lunch date with Anthony, then I’m on baby duty for the evening because Anthony’s got something going on.”

  “Didn’t you just have a lunch date with me?”

  “I am allowed two lunch dates,” I said. “I’m nursing a very active baby.”

  “I suppose, you got two boobies,” Meg said. “They both gotta eat.”

  “Sure.”

  “What happens when you stop nursing? Do you go down to one lunch date per day?”

  I considered. “I mean, I’ll probably be chasing a very active toddler around which also requires lots of calories.”

  “Gotcha,” Meg said. “I chase you around which requires lots of calories too.”

  “What?”

  “Speaking of, gotta run,” Meg said. “All this talk of food has me needing a drink. See you later, chickadee.”

  I yelped, leaping out of the way as Meg sped away, leaving me standing around with almost-crushed toes and an unpleasant finger pointed in her direction. A very, very loving finger.

  Then I made the trek to my own mom-van and took off just slightly more carefully than Meg. I was running late for my lunch date with Anthony, and while I considered texting him to let him know, I suspected he was already on top of it. Whether he tracked me, got reports from the police, or had an invisible drone that tailed my every move—I was never sure how Anthony got his intel. But he got it in annoying amounts.

  I parked outside of Marinello’s and jogged painfully past the gelato. I ignored the pasta bar and meat counter—grudgingly—and made my way upstairs to where Anthony had secured our usual private table near the balcony windows. From our vantage point, we had a direct view to the stunning capitol building, and the cathedral’s top was visible just down the street. We were in the very heart of St. Paul.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I said, sliding into the booth across from Anthony “Is that for me?”

  I pointed at the table where a charcuterie board looked perfectly delicious. Sprigs of rosemary balanced atop thin slices of prosciutto and salami. The meat was flanked by decorative bowls filled with seasoned olives. An array of cheeses, peppers, and nuts laced the sides.

  “Didn’t you just eat?”

  “Huh?”

  “Didn’t you just eat?” Anthony asked. “You were at Frank’s.”

  “I needed to talk to Frankie about the case. It was just an interview.”

  “You’re telling me you went in and out of a pizzeria without ordering a slice?”

  “I didn’t order a slice...”

  “Did you order multiple slices?”

  I harrumphed. “Fine. I might have ordered a whole pizza.”

  “Did you bring home leftovers?”

  “What is this, the Italian inquisition? Can I have an olive or not?”

  Anthony grinned, then leaned across the table and tugged me toward him by the neck of my shirt. He planted a kiss on my lips that had me forgetting about the food on the table before us.

  “Sure.”

  I blinked, still dazed from the kiss, as Anthony sat back down. I sort of hovered back into my seat.

  “Sure, what?”

  “Sure,” he repeated. “You can have an olive.”

  “Olive you,” I retorted. “Anyway, how do you know where I am all the time? I wasn’t driving the van, so it couldn’t have been that... I didn’t bring a purse. Is it my phone?”

  “What were you doing talking to Frankie? He’s trouble.”

  “Which is probably the reason I was having to talk to him,” I said. “If he wasn’t trouble, maybe he wouldn’t be involved in a murder case.”

  Anthony cursed under his breath. “What’d he do this time?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” I said. “He was dating the victim at the time of her death.”

  He swore again. “Don’t trust a word he says.”

  “Really?” I hesitated. “Maybe I’m naïve, but—”

  “You are naïve.”

  “Hey!”

  “It’s true,” Anthony said. “And it’s a good thing. You give everyone a chance. But some people aren’t worthy of your chances.”

  “But how am I supposed to know who those people are?” I asked. “What am I supposed to do—doubt everyone’s every word?”

  “Yes,” Anthony deadpanned. “Much safer that way.”

  “Is that what you do?” I asked, then frowned. “Do you doubt my every word?”

  “How do you think I knew you’d just eaten? I didn’t believe you when you told me you hadn’t, and I was right.”

  “Fair.” I exhaled. “Frankie seemed pretty scared of you. What’d you do to him?”

  “Sometimes it’s not about what you actually do. It’s about what you promise to do.”

  I shivered. “That works?”

  “Might not work for you, sugar,” Anthony said. “Nobody would believe you’d follow through on the sorts of things it takes to get people to cooperate.”

  “Do I even want to know more details?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Fine,” I said again. “So, any information you can provide on Frankie?”

  “The whole Linguine family is rotten,” Anthony said. “Give them an inch, they’ll take ten miles.”

  “Let me guess, you don’t give them many inches anymore.”

  “They had their chance. They lost it.”

  “Yikes. Glad I’m married to you and not on your hit list.”

  Anthony’s eyebrow curved upward. “You think I have a hit list?”

  “Do you?”

  “Let’s talk about Frankie.”

  “You’re ignoring the question.”

  “Have an olive.”

  “Olive you,” I said again, forking one and letting the subject drop. “Tell me about these no good, rotten Linguines. A real shame seeing as their pizza is pretty good.”

  “Because they stole the recipe.”

  “Darn. So, I shouldn’t eat there anymore?”

  “Frankie inherited the place from Frank Sr., his dad. Frankie Junior is just continuing the tradition of running the place. He’s not the brains behind the operation.”

  “Do you think he’s capable of murder?”

  “Capable of it? Sure,” Anthony said a little too easily. “But I feel like Frankie’s got more of a run-someone-over-with-a-car-because-he’s-mad sorta style. A plotted-out murder seems a little bit above his paygrade.”

  “Unless someone else helped him?”

  “Possible,” Anthony said. “Though I don’t think the Linguines play nice with others.”

  I paused with a cracker and prosciutto and cheese halfway to my lips. “But? What aren�
��t you telling me?”

  “I did turn something up that makes me wonder.”

  “How?” I asked. “I literally just came from there now. How did you know to look into them?”

  “I always have my eyes on the Linguines.” Anthony glanced my way and saw my skeptical expression. “And you. I need to keep my eyes on you. Not because I don’t trust you but because I don’t trust other people. And you deal with a lot of other people and most of them aren’t in the nice kids camp.”

  “Are you in the nice kids camp?”

  Anthony narrowed his eyes at me and gave me a simmering stare. “What do you think?”

  I felt myself blush and shoved a hunk of cheese into my mouth. I swallowed. Audibly. “Ok, then.”

  “Here you go.” Anthony handed over a sheet of paper. “I printed this before I headed over. It’s a copy of a letter that Amelia sent to her lawyer two weeks before she died.”

  “She had a lawyer?”

  “A brand new, shiny one.”

  “But people only have lawyers if they are in some sort of trouble.”

  “Exactly,” Anthony said. “Take a look.”

  I read over the letter and was so shocked I didn’t even notice when the server came to take our orders. Anthony said something in the background, which I missed. When I looked up, the server was gone.

  “Amelia was going to sue the Linguine family? Including Frankie? Her boyfriend?”

  Anthony nodded. “Puts a new spin on their otherwise happy relationship, don’t you think?”

  “What happened?”

  “You’ll have to talk to her lawyer to find out. I couldn’t find any documentation of the case progressing.”

  “I don’t know that that’s a good sign.”

  “I agree.”

  “I have to admit, I’m surprised,” I said. “I mean, I know people are capable of lying. I’m not stupid. But Frankie seemed really sad about the loss of his girlfriend. Do you think it was all an act?”

  “I wasn’t there, so it’s hard to say. But it’s possible Frankie’s remorse wasn’t over losing his girlfriend; it could’ve been regret over killing her.”

  “Yikes.”

  “Or, it’s possible that it wasn’t Frankie’s idea.”