Death of an Italian Chef

Book 14: Hayley Powell Mystery

by Lee Hollis

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

The charming coastal town of Bar Harbor, Maine, has a fancy new Italian restaurant—and a nasty new murder . . .



As the food and cocktails columnist for the Island Times, it's Hayley Powell's job to stay on top of the latest eateries in town. Just in time for the summer tourist season, Chef Romeo, a successful restaurateur from New York City, has opened an establishment called—naturally—Romeo's. But between his over-the-top temperament and his no-holds-barred diet, Chef Romeo may not live through the grand opening.



When the chef actually does suffer a mild heart attack, he ends up sharing a hospital room with Hayley's brother Randy, who's there for gall bladder surgery. Chef Romeo has tasted Hayley's cooking and asks her to take over his restaurant while he's laid up. But this temporary gig may turn permanent, after the chef dies from complications. Only thing is, Randy tells a different story. He might have been sedated, but Hayley's bro swears he saw someone come into their room and put Romeo out of his misery. Now it's up to Hayley to find the person who had no reservations about killing the chef . . .

Release date: June 29, 2021

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

Randy stabbed at a clam nestled in his plate of linguini and then popped it in his mouth. He chewed and swallowed it, and then put down his fork and sat back in his chair, discomfited.

Hayley, who was twirling a healthy portion of her spaghetti carbonara onto her own fork, instantly noticed. “You okay, Randy?”

Randy nodded, tiny beads of sweat beginning to form on his brow. “Yeah, I’m just feeling a little under the weather.” He placed the palm of his hand to his forehead. “I hope I’m not coming down with something. I knew I should’ve gotten that flu shot at my last physical.”

Bruce gulped down a glass of red wine. “Well, you can’t get sick now. You need to look after my wife while I’m out of town.”

Hayley picked up her glass of chardonnay to wash down her pasta and smiled. “You know, Bruce, it’s a remarkable thing, really, but before we got married, I actually was quite adept at looking after myself whenever you weren’t around.”

Bruce chuckled and then opened his mouth wide to take in a large spinach-filled ravioli. He snapped his mouth shut like a crocodile, closed his eyes, and moaned rapturously. “Oh, that’s good.”

They were dining on a Saturday night at Bar Harbor’s newest Italian hot spot, Romeo’s, owned and operated by its namesake Chef Romeo—no last name, just Romeo—which was part of his shtick, apparently, although officially he claimed that according to his birth certificate his full name was Romeo Russo. A self-described world-class chef by way of Naples, where his family emigrated from in the 1950s and New York, where he lived most of his life, Romeo was a portly, gregarious, loud, larger-than-life character fond of big, crushing bear hugs whenever he greeted his guests. He had taken Bar Harbor by storm from the moment he first blew into town. His restaurant had only been open a few weeks now, but business was booming, mostly due to its simple, no-frills, but tasty, traditional Italian fare that the locals were eagerly lapping up. There was something in the marinara sauce, some kind of special ingredient that he claimed was his true secret to success. Romeo insisted his restaurant be a throwback, complete with checkered tablecloths, Chianti bottles with melting candle wax, and even an accordion player on Friday nights who would float through the restaurant playing “That’s Amore.”

Randy lowered his hand from his forehead. “It doesn’t feel like a fever, but it’s awfully hot in here, don’t you think?”

Bruce stopped eating and shrugged. “Seems okay to me.”

Hayley looked at her brother Randy, slightly concerned. “Are you sure you don’t want us to drive you home?”

“No, I’ve been going stir-crazy with Sergio back in Brazil for the next three months. I’ve really been looking forward to this dinner out all week.”

Once a year, Randy’s husband, Bar Harbor police chief Sergio Alvares, made the long trek down to South America to visit with his family at their farmhouse outside Curitiba. Randy had considered leaving his bar, Drinks Like A Fish, in the capable hands of his manager Michelle and join Sergio like he had last year, but in the end he decided to stay home because he had not been feeling himself, and was afraid if he traveled, he might get sick.

Bruce went to refill his wineglass, but Hayley snatched the wine bottle away before he had the chance. “It’s no fun flying with a hangover.”

Bruce scoffed. “I’m not flying all the way down to Brazil to see Sergio, I’m just going to New York.” He gently extracted the wine bottle from Hayley’s grasp and poured himself some more.

Bruce was leaving on an assignment for the Island Times, where he worked as the crime reporter. Normally his stories were exclusively local—house break-ins, bicycle thefts, domestic disturbances—but a high-profile court case in lower Manhattan was about to kick off, and it involved a wealthy summer resident on the island who had been accused of defrauding investors in her multimillion-dollar company headquartered in Manhattan. Given the massive public interest in the case, plus the fact that the defendant had a sprawling waterfront estate in Seal Harbor, and was known by just about everyone on Mount Desert Island, editor-in-chief Sal Moretti thought it might serve the community well if Bruce covered the story as it unfolded right where it was happening in the Big Apple. Bruce had jumped at the chance to go, excited about finally having a meaty, high-stakes story to write about.

Hayley crinkled her nose in judgment as Bruce filled his glass to the rim and defiantly belted it back. “Come on, it’s my last hurrah,” Bruce said. “I have no idea how long I’ll be stuck down in New York.”

Hayley turned to Randy and sighed. “Just listen to him. Stuck. Please, I’ve never seen him so excited to be covering a story. He can’t wait to get to New York City.”

Bruce grinned. Just the mention of NYC had him buzzing and all keyed up.

“Randy, you look pale,” Hayley said, frowning.

Randy lifted his red cloth napkin off his lap and patted the sweat off his brow. “Maybe we should call it a night so I can get home to bed.” He dropped his napkin back down in his lap and pushed his barely eaten plate of linguini in clam sauce away from him.

Lenny, a big, lumbering local kid working as a busboy at Romeo’s, suddenly appeared at Randy’s side.

“All finished, sir?” Lenny asked.

Randy nodded half-heartedly. “Yes. Thank you.”

Suddenly, like the Tasmanian devil in a whirling burst of energy, Chef Romeo bounded up to the table after seeing Lenny clearing away Randy’s plate of food. “What’s going on here? He’s not finished with his dinner!”

“He—he said he was,” Lenny stammered, obviously in fear of his thundering, frightening, gigantic boss.

“But he’s barely touched it!” Romeo wailed. “What’s wrong with it? Too much garlic? I’ve heard that before from some of my customers, to which I always say: How can there be such a thing as too much garlic?”

“No, it’s delicious, Romeo, I’m just . . .” Randy said, trying to avoid insulting the prickly chef. He then turned to Lenny. “You know what? Can you wrap that up for me to go?”

“Yes, sir,” Lenny said, scooting away toward the kitchen with the plate of linguini.

“It tastes even better the next day!” Romeo boasted.

Romeo noticed Bruce scraping the last of the marinara sauce off his own plate with a spoon, causing him to break out into a wide, satisfied smile. “I love a man with a hearty appetite!”

“Best ravioli I’ve ever tasted!” Bruce crowed.

Romeo clapped his hands together, then his eyes dropped on Hayley’s plate, which still had a few remnants left of her spaghetti carbonara.

Hayley threw her hands up in the air. “Before you say anything, it’s absolutely delicious! I just couldn’t possibly eat another bite. I probably shouldn’t have gorged on all the garlic bread earlier.”

“What did you think of it? I bake the bread myself every day,” Romeo said.

“Buttery perfection,” Hayley answered.

Romeo eyed Hayley suspiciously. “Is that what you will write in your column tomorrow?”

“I beg your pardon?” Hayley asked innocently.

“Come on, Hayley, you can tell me,” Romeo said, leaning closer, his ample belly nearly moving the table a few inches. “Is this just a casual night out with your husband and brother, or is this a professional visit? Are you here to review my restaurant for the Island Times?”

She was caught.

There was no point in denying it.

Hayley nodded sheepishly.

“I knew it!” Romeo exclaimed, pounding his fist in the palm of his other hand.

“Well, you can rest assured that my review will be glowing. Our entire experience here this evening has been nothing short of five stars,” Hayley promised.

“Well, I am sure there is always room for improvement. I’ve had many haughty New York food critics remind me of that fact over the years,” Romeo said with a laugh. “So tell me, what didn’t you like?”

Hayley sat frozen in her seat, suddenly put on the spot. “No, really, everything was—”

“Come on! There has to be something!” Romeo roared.

Hayley knew she could continue to dodge the question, or risk insulting the chef and be totally honest. It finally came down to the fact that he would never allow them to ever leave, even though the dining room was almost cleared out at this point, if she did not at least come up with something to lightly criticize.

“Is my house salad dressing too salty and vinegary?”

“No, it was perfect, and like Bruce said, the spinach ravioli was outstanding, world-class—”

Romeo zeroed in on Hayley’s plate. “Aha! You’re focused on Bruce’s entrée, but what about your spaghetti carbonara? You’ve had better, haven’t you?”

Hayley vigorously shook her head. “No, it—”

“You can admit it! This helps me, Hayley! I’m always looking for ways to make my food better! I’m not one of those overly sensitive chefs who become personally offended if someone criticizes one of their specialty dishes even the tiniest bit!”

“Okay,” Hayley sighed, finally giving up. “Although your spaghetti carbonara is without question very flavorful and yummy . . .”

Romeo leaned in even closer, his round stomach right in front of Hayley’s face. “Go on . . .”

“I like mine better,” Hayley squeaked.

Romeo exploded. “What? You’re crazy!” He threw a pudgy hand over his heart as if a dagger had just pierced it.

“I knew I should have kept my mouth shut,” Hayley muttered to Bruce and Randy.

Romeo was on a tear. “That’s my great-great-grandmother Gabriella’s recipe, handed down for generations in Naples! There must be something wrong with your taste buds! You should go see a doctor!”

Hayley knew the bombastic chef was half joking, but she could also tell he was clearly rattled by her comment, so she felt the need to blather on. “But again, your spaghetti carbonara truly is scrumptious—”

“Don’t patronize me!” Romeo roared, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. “If you think my spaghetti carbonara is second-rate, you’re entitled to your opinion!”

“I never said second-rate—”

Lenny returned with a container wrapped in a plastic bag and set it down in front of Randy. “Here you go, sir.”

“Thank you,” Randy said to Lenny before looking up at Chef Romeo, and in an attempt to diffuse the tension, picked up the bag of leftovers. “I cannot wait to devour this tomorrow. The clam sauce was exquisite.”

Romeo just blew past the comment, remaining focused squarely on Hayley. “What are you doing on Monday?”

“Working,” she said.

“I mean after work!” Romeo shouted.

“I—I don’t know . . .”

“I want you to come here and make me some of your spaghetti carbonara right here in my kitchen!”

“Oh, Romeo, please, I wish I had never said anything—”

“But you must! If somebody makes better carbonara than my dear old departed great-great-grandmother Gabriella, well, then I need to know about it!”

“The last thing I want to do is compete—”

“It’s not a competition! I just want to find out what makes your spaghetti carbonara taste so special!”

Hayley opened her mouth, ready to give the spiraling chef a definitive no, when suddenly he grabbed his busboy Lenny by the shirt and barked, “Bring them more wine and some cannolis on the house!”

Well, that was it. There was no point in protesting any further, because Hayley was going to be preparing her own recipe for Chef Romeo Monday afternoon. If she knew one thing about herself, Hayley Powell knew she could easily be bought with a complimentary dessert and free-flowing wine.

Hayley sat at her kitchen table, staring wistfully at her phone as Bruce and her daughter Gemma, who now lived and worked in New York City, breezed across Washington Square Park at dusk, the majestic arch at the foot of Fifth Avenue in the background, both their faces pushed in close in front of the camera phone.

“I wanted to take him to an awesome spaghetti joint I’m obsessed with in Little Italy, but he said he’s had his fill of Italian lately, so we’re going to my favorite French place on Bleecker Street,” Gemma yelled into the phone. “Then we’re going to go see Conner’s show uptown.”

Conner was Gemma’s fiancé, an up-and-coming Broadway actor who was currently enjoying success in a revival of Fiddler on the Roof playing the Russian student Fyedka, who romances the lead character Tevya’s daughter Chava. He had perfected a Russian accent, which he eagerly showed off to Hayley during a number of Zoom calls.

“I promised Gemma I won’t nod off like I usually do during any kind of long musical,” Bruce said.

“Just make sure you stay awake during Conner’s solo. He knows exactly where we’re sitting, so I’m sure he’ll have his eyes trained right on us.” Gemma laughed.

“I’m jealous,” Hayley sighed. “I wish I was there with you two right now.”

“Me too, babe,” Bruce said with a wink. “What are your big plans for tonight?”

“Liddy and Mona are on their way over for dinner. I’m doing a dry run preparing my spaghetti carbonara before the face-off with Chef Romeo tomorrow afternoon,” Hayley said. “I need to get the dish perfect, or I will never live it down.”

“I’m not even going to pretend to know what you’re talking about, Mother,” Gemma said, chuckling.

“I’ll explain everything over dinner,” Bruce said.

“We’re coming up on the restaurant now. Bye, Mom!”

Hayley waved at them. “Goodbye! Enjoy! Love you both!”

“I’ll call you after court is dismissed tomorrow,” Bruce promised, waving back.

And then they were gone.

Hayley felt a little lump in her throat.

With her husband and daughter gallivanting all over Manhattan, having a wonderful time after months of painstaking worry about Gemma and Conner’s safety there during the pandemic, Hayley found this moment bittersweet. She, of course, was excited to see Gemma thriving in the big city, her wedding plans with Conner restarted, her career as a food critic and columnist back on track, and she was happy for Bruce to be covering possibly the biggest assignment of his career, but at the same time, she felt stuck at home alone, missing out on these memorable moments.

But instead of feeling sorry for herself, Hayley stood up from the kitchen table and got to work on her spaghetti carbonara, whisking the eggs and cheese together in a bowl and frying the bacon in a pan on the stove until brown and crispy. She popped open a bottle of Pinot Grigio, which, in her opinion, was the perfect companion to her pasta recipe, and as if on cue, Liddy and Mona ambled through the back door, hands out for glasses of wine. By the time she had stirred in the garlic, pasta, egg mixture, and was seasoning with salt and pepper to taste, the three women were on their second glass. Doling out a healthy portion of the carbonara for all of them, they sat down at the dining room table, Hayley anxiously awaiting the verdict.

“Well?” Hayley asked, eyeing both of them as Mona shoveled a forkful into her mouth.

“Oh, Hayley, it’s divine,” Liddy cooed.

“Thank you, Liddy, but you would say that no matter what. Mona is the one I really trust because she never holds back punches.”

Mona swallowed, stared straight ahead, and then slowly nodded. “Not bad.”

“High praise indeed,” Liddy cracked.

“No, you don’t understand,” Hayley said happily. “Coming from Mona, that’s a rave review.”

Mona’s mouth suddenly dropped open, her eyes watering, and she quickly buried her face in her elbow and erupted in a giant sneeze, startling both Hayley and Liddy.

“I’d go easy on the pepper next time,” Mona suggested.

“Noted,” Hayley said.

Liddy twirled some more spaghetti on her fork and shook her head. “I don’t understand why this Chef Romeo is making you jump through hoops to prove you make a better spaghetti carbonara. What’s the point?”

“He’s very competitive and he’s used to being the best, so when I challenged him . . . well, his ego couldn’t resist calling me out to prove it,” Hayley said, before taking another bite of her dish, savoring it. “It is really good, isn’t it?”

Mona reached for the bottle of white wine and upended the rest into her own glass before slamming it back down on the table. “Got any more of this?”

“Yes, in the pantry,” Hayley said, standing up from the table and removing the empty wine bottle from the table.

Mona gulped down the rest of her wine.

“Don’t you have to be up at like four in the morning to haul your lobster traps tomorrow?” Liddy asked, eyebrows raised.

Mona shook her head. “Is that your way of saying I’m drinking too much?”

“No, that goes without saying,” Liddy quipped. “I’m just asking.”

Hayley was in the kitchen uncorking the bottle of wine, but could still hear their exchange.

“Well, my boys are covering for me for a while,” Mona muttered, not exactly overjoyed to be sharing this news.

“Why? Are you taking a vacation?” Hayley asked as she returned to the dining room with the fresh bottle of wine.

“Nope. They keep yammering on about how they’re grown men now and can run the business, and how it doesn’t make sense for their dear, aging mother to be doing so much hard labor,” Mona snorted. “Can you believe that nonsense?”

Hayley poured Liddy some more wine.

Liddy swished it around in her glass as she spoke. “Yes, I can! Your sons are big, strong, strapping men now, fully capable of the physical demands of running a successful lobstering business. Why should you and your tired, crumbling old bones be out on that rickety, leaking boat in the icy waters of the Atlantic every day at some ungodly hour?”

“It’s all I know!” Mona wailed.

“You can still run the business from home,” Hayley said. “Take orders over the phone, look after the books . . .”

“You both know I flunked every math class they made me take in high school. Besides, my daughter Clara’s much smarter than me when it comes to numbers. I let her keep track of all that. If I stop hauling traps, I won’t know what to do with myself.”

“Find yourself a hobby,” L. . .