Long Island Iced Tina

Book 2: Catering Hall Mystery

by Maria DiRico

Genres: Craft & Hobby Cozy Mysteries; Culinary Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

In the second installment of Maria DiRico's new Catering Hall Mystery series, Mia Carina is back in the borough of Queens, in charge of the family catering hall Belle View Banquet Manor, and keeping her nonna company. But some events—like murder at a shower—are not the kind you can schedule . . .



Mia's newly pregnant friend Nicole plans to hold a shower at Belle View—but Nicole also has to attend one that her competitive (and mysteriously rich) stepmother, Tina, is throwing at the fanciest place in Queens. It's a good chance for Mia to snoop on a competitor, especially since doing a search for "how to run a catering hall" can get you only so far.



Mia tags along at the lavish party, but the ambience suffers at Nicole's Belle View shower when a fight breaks out—and then, oddly, a long-missing and valuable stolen painting is unwrapped by the mom-to-be. Tina is clearly shocked to see it. But not as shocked as Mia is when, soon afterward, she spots the lifeless body of a party guest floating in the marina . . .

Release date: February 23, 2021

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

“M y grandbaby’s having a baby!!!”

Mia Carina winced as Minniguccia Evangelista screeched this into her ear. Becoming a great-grandmother was a huge mark of distinction among the Astoria senior citizen crew. Mia thought of her own poor nonna, Elisabetta, who might never achieve this honor thanks to Mia’s train wreck of a failed marriage and the chronic incarcerations of Mia’s handsome, charismatic, and felonious older brother, Posi. “Yes, I heard all about it,” Mia said to Minniguccia. Which indeed she had, since the mother-to-be was the lovely Nicole Karras-Whitman, one of Mia’s closest friends. “I’m so happy for Nicole and Ian.”

“I’ll be honest. I figured when you’re as old as she is, if it ain’t happening, it ain’t gonna happen.” Mia made a face. Nicole was a year younger than her own thirty-one years. “But,” Minniguccia continued, “I prayed, and I prayed, and I prayed. I even talked all my neighbors into a weekly block rosary. Well, not all. The Feinbergs passed with regrets, but they said they’d put a word in at their temple, however that works. Anyway, the man upstairs came through for me. My grandbaby’s having a baby!!!” Minniguccia screeched this even louder the second time. Mia held the phone an arm’s length away from her ear. “And we’re gonna have one of the showers at your new place, that Belle View Banquet whatever.”

Mia pulled in her arm to bring the phone back to normal hearing distance. “Belle View Banquet Manor. One of the showers? How many is Nicole having?”

“As many as it takes to celebrate this miracle!”

Mia resisted the urge to point out that pregnancy at thirty was less a miracle than a fact of life for her friends, who often waited to start families until they established careers that could support a child or two in the pricey New York tristate area. “Minnie, I’m honored you thought of Belle View for the baby shower.”

“I know you’ll do it up right.”

Mia had only been running Belle View with her father for a few months, but she’d been in the business long enough to know that “I know you’ll do it up right” was code for because we’re friends, you need to pile on the free extras. She was happy to do this for a BFF like Nicole. “We’ll do it up so right,” she promised the great-grandmother-to-be.

“Linda and I are footing the bill,” Minniguccia said, referencing her own daughter, who was Nicole’s mother. “You get together with Nicole, see if there’s anything special she wants, and say yes to it all.”

“I’ll call her as soon as you and I hang up. Do you want her input on everything? Decorations? Guest list? Food?”

“Her mother and I will take care of the decorations. As to the guest list . . .” There was a loaded pause. “Linda is insisting we invite the stepmonster.”

Mia sympathized with the venomous spin Minniguccia put on the word stepmonster. The older woman despised Tina, Ron Karras’ second wife, and with good reason, in Mia’s opinion. In the five or so years since Tina joined the Karras family post-Ron and Linda’s divorce, Mia had never heard a good word about her. This wasn’t completely true. Linda, one of the sweetest women ever to walk the earth, tried her best to find something positive to say about the woman who’d replaced her in Ron’s affections, while her daughter Nicole instantly changed the subject whenever her stepmother’s name came up. It fell to Minnie to articulate animosity toward the former flight attendant, which the octogenarian did with gusto at every opportunity. She’d picked up the word “stepmonster” when it appeared in the zeitgeist and refused to use any other moniker when referring to the second Mrs. Karras. Except for one . . .

“As to the food, it’s whatever Nicole asks for except for one dish I insist we include on the menu since the stepmonster will be there,” Minniguccia said, her tone dark. “Pasta puttanesca. For the puttana.”

That was the other name Minniguccia called Tina: puttana. The Italian word for “whore.”

Mia heard Minniguccia spit to punctuate the insult. “Pasta puttanesca is a delicious dish,” she said diplomatically. “I’ll tell our chef, Guadalupe, to dig up the best recipe she can find.”

“With an extra helping of puttana.” Minniguccia spit again.

“I’ll get in touch with you after I talk to Nicole,” Mia said, aiming for the high road by not responding to Minnie’s vitriol. “Dad and I will make sure the shower is a beautiful, memorable event.” But, Mia thought to herself, given the fractured family dynamics, not too memorable.

After a hearty string of epithets unleashed against the despised Tina in both English and Italian, Minniguccia signed off. Mia texted mom-to-be Nicole an invitation to meet, flavored with a string of baby-themed emojis. She got an instant reply of How’s tonight? followed by hearts and exclamation marks. Mia confirmed, then peeled her thighs off the plastic covers that still encased the gaudy furniture she’d been gifted with by a neighbor who had decamped Astoria’s 46th Place for a senior living facility on Long Island.

“Ouch. I really gotta get rid of this stuff. It’s the worst.” She said this to Doorstop, the ginger Abyssinian cat currently splayed out over the gaudy rug Mia had also inherited from her former neighbor. Doorstop, who treated all the plastic-covered furniture with disdain, ignored her. But Pizzazz, the beloved parakeet Mia let flutter around her apartment, chirped what she took as agreement, then pooped on the couch. “My sentiments exactly,” Mia said to the bird. She grabbed a paper towel and cleaned up the tiny mess. The one benefit of the slick, uncomfortable cushion covers was that it made this task easy.

Mia had a good reason for the delay in de-plastic-ing her furniture. Business at Belle View Banquet Manor, the catering hall she ran with her father, was brisk. The May and June calendar had boasted weddings every weekend, as well as smaller events, July was going well, and August looked to be a repeat of the previous successful months. Two murders at the manor in early spring hadn’t hurt business and may have helped. It’s like they say, Mia thought to herself while showering, the only bad publicity is no publicity. She toweled off, then headed to her bedroom, stepping over the prostrate Doorstop. Mia pulled on a pair of black linen capri pants and a snug purple tank top. She sniffed the air, suddenly redolent with the scent of butter and Italian sausage. “Mia, vieni,” her grandmother yelled from the apartment below in the two-family home the women shared. “Come. I made breakfast.”

“Sto arrivando,” Mia yelled back. “I’ll be there in a minute.” There was no animus in either woman’s voice. Yelling to each other was simply the way the Carina family had always communicated.

Mia scurried down the stairs and made her way through a small foyer into her grandmother’s modest first floor digs. Elisabetta Carina, dressed in her uniform of tracksuit and sneakers, stuck a fork into a sausage sizzling on top of her forty-plus-year-old oven and deposited it on a bed of fried onions and peppers already gracing a plate next to a pile of buttery scrambled eggs. Mia took a seat at the room’s decades-old dinette set. Elisabetta tore a hunk off a loaf of fresh Italian bread and added it to the plate, which she placed in front of Mia. “Mangia. Eat.”

“Si. Grazie, Nonna.” Mia dug into the heavy breakfast, vowing to follow it up with a lunch of carrot and celery sticks. At least one meal in her day needed to be low-cal and less artery clogging.

Elisabetta fixed herself a plate and took a seat across from Mia. “Did Minnie call you?”

“Yes. She and Linda are gonna host a baby shower for Nicole at Belle View.” Mia sawed off a chunk of sausage and speared it, along with some peppers and eggs. “I’ll finally get to meet the infamous Tina.”

“Tina. Puh.” Elisabetta made a stink face, then spit, as Minniguccia had done earlier. “Puttana. She stole Ron from right under poor Linda’s nebbia. Linda’s an angel. Never says a bad word about her. But we know what she is, a—”

“Puttana,” Mia chorused with her grandmother. “I’ve heard that word more in the last hour than in my entire life. I almost feel sorry for this Tina.”

A look of horror crossed Elisabetta’s face. She threw her hands in the air. “Marone, no! Never even think that. We are, what, how do you kids say it? We’re Team Linda.”

“Linda’s insisting Tina be invited to the shower, so I think she’s made her peace with the situation. So, it’s more like we’re Team Minniguccia.”

“This is why I don’t like sports,” Elisabetta grumbled. “Too many teams.”

Mia used the chunk of bread to wipe up stray splotches of butter and olive oil. “Grazie per calazione, Nonna. Breakfast was delicious. I’ve gotta get to work.”

Elisabetta curled her upper lip. “It’s Sunday. The day of rest. The only place you should be getting to”—she pointed one finger at Mia and one in the direction of Perpetual Anguish, the Catholic church catty-cornered to the house—“is church.”

“I’ll go next weekend.”

“You say that every weekend.”

“We’re super busy, which is a good thing. It keeps Dad out of trouble.” Mia’s father, a lieutenant in the Boldano crime family, had received Belle View as payment for a gambling debt, and was under orders to run it as one of the Family’s legitimate businesses. Mia was determined to help him succeed.

“Si,” Elizabeth acknowledged reluctantly. “Fine. Go to work. But next week . . .” She pointed to the church again, then to the heavens. “Dio sta guardando. God is watching.”

With this ominous warning lingering over her, Mia headed outside. She opened the front door to an assault of hot, humid summer air, which put the kibosh on her plan to bike to Belle View. She debated calling Evans, the catering hall’s sous and dessert chef, for a ride. He’d moved into an elderly neighbor’s upstairs apartment, the term “elderly neighbor” applicable to pretty much everyone on the block except for recent buyers who were part of Astoria’s gentrification boom. Mia balanced her full stomach against the scariest-ride-at-the-amusement-park that was a trip on Evans’s motorcycle, and opted for other means of transportation.

She checked the Pick-U-Up rideshare app knowing that she wouldn’t hear from Jamie Boldano, the non-mobbed-up son of the Family who was driving to put himself through a graduate psychology program. Despite their mutual attraction, Mia and Jamie seemed to have settled into the friend zone. He was at the beach with his girlfriend Madison, a junior editor at a Manhattan fashion website. Madison had a 1/64th Hamptons share, which seemed to translate into spending a single night at a tiny house miles from the beach with a dozen other people. Still, imagining Jamie and Madison together anywhere made Mia sad. She cursed the relationship PTSD she’d been saddled with, courtesy of her adulterous late husband, which left her wary of embarking on another romance—even one with someone as close to her as Jamie.

Mia shook off the blues and checked her phone again. The app showed no other Pick-U-Up drivers nearby, so she called a cab, which appeared a few minutes later. The route to work passed street after street of the sturdy, red-brick post-war homes that made up Mia’s neighborhood. The driver stopped at a red light and Mia gazed out the window while they waited for the signal to change. When she was a child, her father had told her that the Italian bricklayers who built the homes occasionally threw in a whimsical touch like arranging a few bricks to spell their initials or a shape of some kind. Mia still enjoyed seeking out the cheeky masonry messages. By the time the light turned green, she’d found the initials A.R. and the image of a winking eye, all created by cleverly arranged red bricks.

The driver deposited Mia in front of Belle View, a facility whose nondescript mid-century exterior belied its lovely location on a tiny peninsula overlooking Flushing Bay Marina. Mia listened to the rhythmic thumping of water against the boats docked at the marina. The roar of a jet taking off from the LaGuardia Airport runway, which also happened to be in Belle View’s eyeline, drowned out the peaceful sound and brought Mia back to earth. She pulled open one of the catering manor’s double glass doors and stepped inside. Mia did a visual sweep of the lobby, taking a moment to enjoy the upgrades that a series of weddings, Sweet Sixteens, galas, and assorted parties had funded. The white walls gleamed from a recent paint job and the ornate crystal chandelier glistened from a detailed cleaning. Giant urns standing sentry by the entry to the Marina Ballroom were now bolted to the wall to prevent them from skittering across the tiled floor whenever a plane departed from or landed at LaGuardia. Mia threw away a few leaves that had fallen to the ground from a floral display filling one of the urns, then headed down a hallway that led to the catering hall offices, which had yet to reap the benefits of Belle View’s modest success. She dropped into the battered office chair in front of her ancient computer and began sorting through the hundred or so emails requiring her attention.

By the time she finished confirming and placing orders, e-talking nervous brides off the ledge, and locking in an event for Le Donne Di Orsogna, a social club for women descended from the immigrants of Orsogna—which happened to be the picturesque Italian town her family hailed from—hours had passed. Mia checked the time and uttered an exclamation. She was already late to meet Nicole. She texted an apology, then called a cab. Messina Carina, you must learn to drive, she scolded herself as the cab, under orders to make time, careened down Grand Central Parkway. It pulled up in front of a slightly shabby bar whose exterior hadn’t been altered since its opening sometime in the nineteen-fifties. Mia jumped out of the cab and hurried inside. Her friend Nicole waved from a worn red Naugahyde booth. She stood up and the two women hugged, Nicole’s burgeoning belly between them.

“Look at you,” Mia marveled, gesturing to her friend’s stomach.

“Six weeks away,” Nicole said, holding up six fingers. Blessed with the best of Italian and Greek genes, she was a Mediterranean beauty, with olive skin, curly brunette hair, and a dimpled smile. She was carrying high and wore an elegant black maternity dress.

Mia made eye contact with Piero, the bartender and restaurant proprietor. He mimed “got it” and poured a glass of Chardonnay. “This place isn’t fancy, but the food is fantastic.”

“I know.” Nicole motioned to a half-empty breadbasket. “Piero introduced himself and brought this. He said he makes everything himself, including the bread, and that dinner is on him. A ‘Family’ man. With a capital F?”

Mia nodded. “Yes. And dinner’s not on him, no matter what he says, but that’s for me, not you.”

Piero delivered the glass of wine to the women’s table and disappeared into the kitchen. The two friends spent a few minutes catching up, then Mia steered the conversation toward Nicole’s shower. “I told your grandmother that I wanted to run as much as I could by you first.”

“Thank you for that. The thought of Minnie not being reined in is terrifying. She wanted to have one of those proclamations made up when the baby is born, you know like the royal family does, where they put a big sign in front of the palace announcing the birth. I was like, ‘Where are you gonna put that, Nonna, in front of the Steinway Street subway station?’”

“Your mother can help me keep her under control.” Mia sipped her wine. “So, Minnie said you’re having more than one shower.”

Nicole slumped in her booth. “Yup. Minnie and Mom’s, my friends, Ian’s family, my coworkers . . . and Tina.”

Mia’s eyes widened. “Tina’s throwing you a shower? The evil stepmother?”

Nicole pursed her lips. “Oh, don’t think she’s doing it for me. Tina’s convinced that my dad still has feelings for my mom. She’s throwing the shower to show off and compete with her. It’s infuriating but I can’t say no because my parents just want peace in the family.”

“Where’s she having it?”

“Versailles on the Park.”

Mia’s mouth dropped open. “Versailles? That place is crazy pricey.”

Nicole gave a vigorous nod. “I know. Like I said, showing off. Bella figura.”

Mia nodded, all too familiar with bella figura, the Italian concept of presenting a positive, even superior, social image to the world. She picked up one of Piero’s homemade breadsticks and snapped it in half. “Wow. Okay, so you can’t get out of that shower. But I’m worried the rest of the lineup is gonna wear you out. I think you should combine everything else except the work event into one shower. If you’re on board with this, I’ll sell it to your mother and grandmother. It’ll up their guest list, but I’m sure they won’t care.”

Nicole straightened up. “I would love that. Thank you.”

“It’s done.” Mia looked around the restaurant. A couple of older men she recognized as Donny Boldano’s “associates” waved to her and she waved back. “Piero never brought us menus.”

“He told me we didn’t need them. He had a special order for us.’

“Whatevs. He’s an amazing cook.” Mia chomped down on half of her breadstick. She followed this up by eating the other half.

Nicole leaned forward. “So, what’s going on with you? Deets about your love life, please. You and Jamie . . .”

Nicole wiggled her eyebrows and flashed a knowing smile. Mia shook her head and held up a hand. “Not happening. Just friends. He’s got a girlfriend. And I’m not dating. No time. Belle View is taking off, which is great, but we’re understaffed. Everyone’s working really hard, even our one slacker employee, Cammie Dianopolis. But slacking was basically written into her deal, so she’s doing us a favor just by showing up. We have to hire more people, but I’m not sure where to look.” She frowned and drained her wine glass. “To be honest, I did an online search for ‘how to run a catering hall.’ I dug up some good stuff, but not enough. I wish I could crash a party at another venue to see how they run things.”

“You don’t have to crash anything,” Nicole said. “Consider yourself invited to Tina’s big fat Greek baby shower.”

Mia brightened. “Really? That would be wonderful. I can learn a lot from a Versailles event.”

Piero emerged from the kitchen holding two large plates emitting clouds of steam. He deposited one in front of each woman. “Ecco,” he said. “Here you go.”

Mia sniffed the steam. “Capers. Tomatoes. Olives. This is—”

“Pasta puttanesca,” Piero said with pride. “By special request.” He mimed tipping a hat and returned to the bar.

“Special request,” Mia repeated. She wrinkled her brow. “Nicole, did you tell your grandmother where we were eating?”

“Yes.” Nicole stared her plate. “She must have heard about Tina’s shower.”

“Oh, yeah.” Mia looped pasta around her fork, then deposited it in her mouth. “I have to say, this is the most delicious stepmother-shaming pasta you will ever eat.”

“Amen to that,” Nicole said, mouth full.

While the women ate in companionable silence, Mia thought about the baby shower Tina planned to throw for her stepdaughter. Attending would allow Mia to snoop around Versailles on the Park and see how Queens’ toniest catering hall operated. Better yet, she’d get to see how Tina Iles-Karras, notorious puttana and “stepmonster,” operated.

The next few weeks were a blur of long workdays stretching into evening events, fueled by copious amounts of Elisabetta’s espresso, a brew so strong that family members joked it should only be available by prescription. Fortunately, planning Nicole’s baby shower proved to be a breeze. Nicole dictated an all-women party, eschewing the trend toward co-ed baby showers. . . .