Murder in an Italian Café

Book 2: Bria Bartolucci Mystery

by Michael Falco

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; International Crime & Mystery

Synopsis

Set in beautiful Positano, Italy, the latest novel in a cozy mystery series featuring a widowed B&B owner who discovers a body in one of her bedrooms before opening day! Perfect for fans of Mario Giordano and Lorenzo Carcaterra!

Though she still misses her late husband, Carlo, Bria couldn't be happier that their dream bed and breakfast, Bella Bella, is humming along nicely. Of course, even on the stunning Amalfi Coast, things seldom run smoothly. Like Bria's mother and mother-in-law dueling over a suitable communion site for Bria's eight-year-old son Marco. Bria's also juggling the demands of the famous Chef Lugo, his producer, Massimo, and Pippa, a member of the production crew who is staying at Bella Bella for a nice, long-term stay . . .

Until Lugo mysteriously dies on-camera, a victim of apparent murder. But finding out who wanted him gone is no stroll on the beach. Bria soon learns that Chef Lugo's multi-media empire is at a make-or-break tipping point, and Lugo himself had racked up any number of enemies—financial, professional . . . and very personal. Now to save her friend's cafe from a ruined reputation, Bria must delve into the glittering surface of false alibis, pretty lies, and not-so-glamourous hidden identities to catch a murderer determined to serve up another victim . . .

Release date: September 24, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 368

Sample

Late September in Positano was like the last moments of a dream. A fantasy that was so mesmerizing, it couldn’t possibly be real. And yet it was.

In this village nestled on Italy’s legendary Amalfi Coast, every sense was catered to and embraced, especially at this time of year. The breeze was heavy with sweet lavender and sea salt; the sky a swath of blue that resembled a wave of joy. The chirps and cries of the sparrows and gulls could be heard alongside the sighs and murmurs of the entranced tourists, whose sun-kissed skin felt almost as smooth and soft as the sand of Positano’s famous beaches. And the pasta, the sauces, the vegetables, the desserts on the tables of every home and café were overflowing with mouthwatering flavors enhanced by that special ingredient Italians were famous for—love.

Positano was a world like no other. A world that Bria Bartolucci now called home. And Bella Bella—the bed-and-breakfast she owned and in which she lived—was quickly becoming almost as popular as the village itself.

“I’m giving Bella Bella four stars!” Even though the woman who shouted that declaration had a shrill New York accent, the words were still music to Bria’s ears. They were validation. Bria’s hard work was paying off.

“Harvey and I have traveled all over the world, but this place is like heaven on earth!” The woman reached out and grabbed Bria’s hand. “And you—bella signora—have been like our very own angel.”

“Grazie mille.” Bria handed the woman a small bag with the Bella Bella logo on it—a graphic design of the bright pink B and B set against a clear blue sky and a golden sun. “This is for your trip home, Patsy. It’s the bomboloni your husband likes so much. I made some fresh this morning.”

“Oh my God!” Patsy snatched the bag from Bria’s hands and held it close to her nose. She inhaled deeply and let out a sound that reminded Bria of a ship’s foghorn. Only louder. “Harvey loves these! A doughnut stuffed with chocolate is like Christmas morning to a retired New York City police officer.”

“It’s a long trip home,” Bria said. “I want you to take a little bit of Positano back with you.”

“We’re taking so much more with us.” Patsy looked around the room, and tears started to form in her eyes. “Memories that will last a lifetime.”

“Che meraviglia. Grazie.” Bria swallowed hard to prevent tears from welling in her eyes. “You and Harvey have a safe trip back home.”

Rivaling the passion that Anna Magnani exuded in her Academy Award–winning performance in The Rose Tattoo, Patsy gazed longingly at something just beyond Bria’s left shoulder. “Arrivederci, Positano!” Grandly, Patsy turned and exited through the front door. Less than five seconds later, she returned with a half-eaten bombolone raised to the sky and a delirious grin on her face. Patsy looked like Anna Magnani right after she had won her Oscar. “Bria Bartolucci! You and Bella Bella just earned yourselves five stars!”

Bria laughed as she watched Patsy exit—just as grandly—a second time, but soon the tears she had tried to restrain sprang from her eyes. Quickly, she wiped them away and silently chastised herself for becoming so emotional. Patsy was simply happy to have dessert at eight a.m., before beginning her thirteen-hour journey back home, so there was no reason to react like a stolta. Yet Bria didn’t feel foolish; she felt proud.

Running the bed-and-breakfast that her late husband, Carlo, had bought for them was no longer a dream. It was a dream come true. There had been times when Bria didn’t think she would prevail, when she thought no matter how hard she tried, she wouldn’t succeed without her husband by her side. There had been times when she wanted to sell the place, give up, and leave Positano for the safety and security of her parents’ home. For many reasons, she stayed.

She wanted to show her son, Marco, that it was always better to confront a challenge than to cower from one. She wanted to honor her late husband’s vision for their future. Mainly, she wanted to prove to herself what she had begun to question—that she had the strength to survive, and even flourish, in the aftermath of such devastating loss and pain.

When she received the news that Carlo had died in a plane crash only a few months after they had moved to Positano from Rome, Bria felt as if her world had died along with her husband. Every hope and wish she had for her future included Carlo and their son, Marco. Their little family had become a triangle, three connected souls that could exist only if all three remained intact. Without Carlo, Bria and Marco’s life was suddenly adrift, missing a vital element, and Bria truly didn’t know if they would survive. One look into her son’s eyes and Bria knew she didn’t have a choice.

Renewed, Bria was determined to turn Bella Bella into the dream Carlo had envisioned. A place where travelers from all over the world could gather to experience the almost surreal beauty that Positano had to offer, could share their journey with other like-minded visitors, and might ignite a passion in Marco about the world that lay outside the village’s borders. Enlisting the help of family, friends, and her new neighbors, Bria accomplished her goal. There was no denying it. Bella Bella was a success.

It wasn’t just Patsy who had told Bria that their stay had exceeded expectations, it was almost all her guests. Bria was grateful and humbled by their praise, of course, but Bria was also competitive. It didn’t matter if she had entered her painting in an art contest, if she had to defend her collegiate fencing championship, or if she wanted to have a satisfied customer. Her motivation was the same: she wanted to win.

And win she did. Bria felt as if she had just won millions of euros in the once-a-year Lotteria Italia drawing after buying only one ticket. But she knew she had not done it all by herself. She’d had help.

Her parents, Fifetta and Franco, had given her not only moral support but also practical advice, since for several decades, they had run Mondo dei Sogni, a banquet hall in Ravello, the mountaintop village perched high above the town of Amalfi. The hall had become the destination for weddings on the Amalfi Coast, thanks in part to its name, which in English meant “Dreamland.” Who wouldn’t want to start off their married life in the land of dreams?

Her migliore amica from the time she was thirteen years old, Rosalie was Bria’s sounding board, confidant, and crisis manager. If she needed to choose a paint color for the bedroom walls, if she needed to test out a new recipe, or if she simply needed a shoulder to cry on, Rosalie was the first person Bria called for help.

Whenever Bria doubted herself or felt overwhelmed, she simply needed to think of her son, Marco, and those emotions were washed away with a wave of unconditional love. As was the case for most Italian mothers, thoughts of her child made Bria forget any sorrow that clung to her heart. If any worry did remain, Bria just had to think of the king of Bella Bella, her dog, Bravo. The two-year-old Segugio Italiano with the lean tan body and the long floppy ears was as irresistible as the unnaturally scenic Positano landscape.

Then there was Giovanni Monteverdi. Her blond-haired guy Friday with the bulging muscles and man bun was much more than her employee: he had become an indispensable member of her family. He cooked, he cleaned, he repaired repairs Bria didn’t know were in need of repair, and he had—without her prodding or requesting—taken on the role of Marco’s fun uncle. He helped the young boy improve his soccer skills, showed him how to perfectly skewer a wiggling worm on a fishhook, and even taught him how to make his bed.

Bria was glad that she hadn’t listened to the villagers who told her Giovanni was nothing more than a ladruncolo and not someone who could be trusted. It was true that Giovanni had a shady history, but it was also true that he had overcome his troubled past to become an upstanding Positanese. There were still some members of the village who questioned Giovanni’s transformation, and Bria knew she wasn’t going to change their minds with words. Instead, she made it known that she trusted Giovanni with her son’s life. For an Italian, that should be enough proof.

So lost in thought was Bria that she didn’t immediately hear the noise in the back of the house. She went into the kitchen to look out the window and saw that it was Giovanni replacing a tile that had broken, thanks to the overgrown roots of an overzealous lemon tree. Bravo was sitting in the shade, overseeing the project, his eyes half-closed, and his tongue falling out of his mouth and looking almost as long as his ears. This was no time for work, however; this was time for a celebration.

Bria pulled two small jelly glasses from the kitchen cupboard and grabbed the bottle of limoncello from the counter. It was a common brand sold locally in all the gift shops that dotted the village, but quite good. Bria wanted to create her own concoction and call it Bella Bella Limoncella, but she hadn’t yet figured out the perfect special ingredient to add to the traditional recipe that would give it a unique taste. Until then, she’d drink like a tourist.

With the bottle in one hand and the two glasses in the other, Bria walked outside and then down the small alleyway to the right of the building to join Giovanni in the backyard. Before she was even visible, Bravo started barking. “It’s just me, angioletto.”

When Bria entered the backyard, she saw that while Giovanni was working, Bravo was still sitting in the shade. He hadn’t barked to ward off any intruders, he had just said hello. Then again, who needed a guard dog when they had a handyman who looked like Giovanni?

“ ’Giorno, Bria.”

“Morning, Vanni.” Bria placed the glasses down on the small patio table, unscrewed the cap off the limoncello bottle, and started to pour the sweet yellow liquid into the glasses. “It’s break time.”

Giovanni wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his forearm, and the golden hairs on his arm glistened in the early morning sun. “Isn’t it a bit early for limoncello?”

“Sciocchezza!” Bria handed one glass to Giovanni and raised hers in the air. “Brindiamo al nostro successo!”

“Why are we drinking to success?” Giovanni asked.

“Because we’re successful.”

Giovanni furrowed his brow, making his green eyes squint, and with his free hand, he tucked a long strand of blond hair that had escaped the rubber band that held his man bun in place. “Scusa, that isn’t true.”

“Che cosa? How can you say that?” Bria gulped her glass of limoncello and resumed speaking before Vanni could answer her questions. “We’ve been booked solid since May, almost every guest steals the lemon-scented soaps from their bathrooms, and Patsy, the woman from New York who just left, is going to give us a five-star rating!”

“I know all of that,” Vanni replied. “Except the part about Patsy, which is fantastico.”

It was Bria’s turn to furrow her brow. “Then how can you say we’re not a success?”

“We’re not a success.” Giovanni smiled at Bria, his green eyes now sparkling instead of squinting. “You are.”

Maybe it was because Italians talked so much and talked so quickly that the power of words could sometimes get lost. It was good to be reminded that what a person said had an impact. Which was why when Bria spoke, she maintained eye contact with Giovanni. She wanted to make sure he understood how sincere she was. “You, Giovanni Monteverdi, are one of the main reasons Bella Bella is so successful. I could not have done any of this without you.”

Vanni swallowed hard and blushed. He tried to hold Bria’s gaze but couldn’t. He looked over at Bravo and smiled. “Looks like the limoncello’s gone to your mamma’s head.”

“Forse, ma è la verità. You have been instrumental in turning this place into one of the most popular B and B’s in the village.” Bria sat at the table and poured herself another glass. “Should I list all the things that you’ve done since we’ve opened, not to mention everything you did leading up to opening day? Repairing the central cooling system, repainting all the rooms, creating new recipes for the menu, carrying luggage up and down the stairs . . .”

“Va bene, basta!” Vanni shook his head but couldn’t completely hide the smile that was forming on his lips. He sat down across from Bria and raised his glass toward her. “Al nostro successo!”

Bria watched Giovanni drink to their shared success, and it filled her with joy. This time, however, she took only a sip of her drink. She had a full day ahead of her, and she knew that if she gulped down two glasses of Positano’s favorite beverage, she wouldn’t make it past noon.

“Un’altra cosa,” Bria said. “Without you, I don’t think Marco would ever get to school on time.”

Giovanni could no longer hide his smile; in fact, it grew and was accompanied by a belly laugh. “When I dropped Marco off this morning, Sister Benedicta said she still wasn’t used to him arriving before the morning school bell chimed.”

Bria couldn’t blame Marco’s favorite teacher, whom most everyone called Sister B, for her comment, because Bria knew it was the truth. It was hard being a single mother as well as a small business owner, and so certain responsibilities and tasks were sometimes overlooked, which was why she was so thankful to have Giovanni in her life. Even when he was telling her things she didn’t like to hear.

“Have you, by any chance, spoken to your mother?” he asked.

“This morning? No.”

“What about your mother-in-law?”

“Imperia? Not for a few days.” Sensing trouble, Bria leaned in closer. “Perché? Is something wrong?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“If we can trust Annamaria.”

“Uffa!” Bria grabbed her glass and downed the rest of the limoncello. Tipsy head or not, she was going to need it to hear the rest of what Giovanni had to say.

Annamaria Antonelli was affectionally known as le chiacchierona di Positano, a moniker she embraced because she couldn’t argue the fact that she was the biggest gossip in the village. If something happened, Annamaria knew about it, which was why Bria was anxious to hear what she knew about her mother and her mother-in-law.

“What did she say about my mother and Imperia?”

“They’ve been squabbling.”

“Squabbling?”

“Yes. Over Marco.”

“Non può essere vero,” Bria declared. “They both love Marco. They would never fight over him.”

“It’s not a fight about him,” Vanni clarified. “More of a fight over his Holy Communion.”

“Vabbè,” Bria said. “That makes more sense.”

Traditionally, Holy Communion ceremonies were held in May. Because May was the beginning of the major tourist season in Positano and the weather was quite hot during that time of year, Sister Eugenia, the Mother Superior at St. Cecilia’s Grammar School, petitioned to move the ceremony to October. It was a bold request and one that the archdiocese did not initially grant. Sister Eugenia, however, was a persuasive and skilled debater and pointed out that World Communion Day was celebrated in October and the Communion ceremony could be promoted as part of the Church’s global outreach program. Ultimately, Sister Eugenia got her way.

Since the announcement, both Fifetta and Imperia had been badgering Bria to make a decision about Marco’s party. Her mother wanted to have it at their banquet hall in Ravello, and Imperia wanted to have it on her yacht, which was docked at the marina in Positano, near Rosalie’s tour boat. The only thing both women agreed on was that Bria’s initial suggestion to hold the party at Bella Bella was inappropriate. They felt the B and B was much too small to be the venue for such an important milestone.

Bria agreed with them and was also concerned about how she would throw a family party at the B and B and still cater to her paying guests, but she couldn’t tell them that, because then she’d have to choose one of their solutions. Her choices were to betray her mother or suffer her mother-in-law’s wrath. Instead, Bria decided to avoid the subject. She had time to deal with the situation later. It wasn’t even October yet, Marco’s Communion was weeks away.

“Do me a favor, Giovanni.”

“Certo. Cosa vuoi?”

“If either my mother or Imperia calls for me,” Bria said, “tell them I ran away with Bravo.”

The sound of his name roused the dog from his state of semiconsciousness, and he stretched and then let out a loud yawn. Bria got up from her chair and patted her thigh. In an instant, Bravo was at her side.

“I don’t want to dwell on any squabbling,” Bria announced. “Andiamo, Bravo. Let’s take a walk through our beautiful village.”

Despite the growing suspicion that the minor family strife created by the uncharacteristic argument between Marco’s grandmothers was going to develop into major turmoil, Bria allowed herself to bask in the warm September sunshine as she, with Bravo a few steps ahead, walked into the village. Viale Pasitea, the main street in Positano, which curved from top to bottom like a long, lazy snake, was less crowded this time of year than during the high season, but the narrow road was hardly empty even at this time in the morning. There were cars and delivery trucks moving in both directions; Vespas, scooters, and three-wheelers, whose drivers didn’t always follow the rules of the road; and, of course, tourists beguiled by the sublime landscape. It was an obstacle course that Bria and Bravo luckily had experience navigating.

As she walked, Bria listened to the sparrows chirp an impromptu melody, their sounds punctuated by the crunch of the dirt underneath her espadrilles—which she considered her salvation and the only shoes she would ever wear when walking through the steep village. She let the smell of the orange trees and lavender bushes waft over her and felt the mixture of the cool wind from the sea and the warmer air from inland caress her face and bare arms. She looked out at the glorious beachfront below and still couldn’t believe this was where she lived.

Even though the English translation of Positano was “a place to stay,” most people just visited. Built into the side of the craggy prehistoric Lattari Mountains, Positano was a marvel of modern-day architecture. As inhospitable as it was inviting, as isolated as it was welcoming, and as mysterious as it was recognizable. Say the name Positano to anyone and images of paradise would fill their minds. It was paradise, but Bria had learned very quickly that it was so much more. It was home.

When they rounded the bend, they could see behind Enrico’s store, Flowers by Enrico, and Bria smiled when she saw Enrico and Paolo playing bocce. She wasn’t surprised that Enrico was taking advantage of some leisure time before he opened his store, but she didn’t expect to find Paolo next to him, throwing his bright green bocce in an effort to hit the smaller white pallino. As the owner of the largest parking lot in the village, one that was open twenty-four hours a day, Paolo didn’t have much leisure time.

“Buongiorno, signori!” Bria called out to the men as Bravo raced over to join them on the small patch of grass.

“ ’Giorno, Bria!” Enrico cried. “Buongiorno, Bravo, mio amico.”

Bravo lay down on the grass and rolled onto his back to give Enrico unrestricted access to his belly. Enrico didn’t disappoint and dutifully rubbed Bravo’s stomach, making the dog’s tongue, once again, flop out of his mouth.

“Buongiorno, Bria,” Paolo said.

“ ’Giorno,” Bria replied. “Who’s minding the parking lot?”

“My nephew, Michele, started working for me as a mechanic in the garage so he can watch the lot when it’s slow.” Paolo started to gather up the stray balls as it appeared they had ended a frame. “Now I have some free time to let Enrico beat me at bocce.”

“For every game I let him win, he gives me a free day of parking,” Enrico said.

“Che carino,” Bria said. “Però I didn’t realize you had family nearby, Paolo.”

Before Paolo answered, Bria noticed that he glanced at Enrico, who nodded his head slightly before throwing a twig, which Bravo rambunctiously ran after to retrieve. It was as if Paolo was asking for permission to speak or seeking reassurance that Bria could be trusted. It was evident by his reply that Paolo was being cautious with what he was willing to share.

“È complicato,” Paolo replied.

“Most things that have to do with family are complicated,” Bria replied. “I just found out that my mother and Imperia may be getting ready to go to war with each other.”

“My money’s on Fifetta.” Enrico picked up the twig Bravo had dropped from his mouth and threw it to the other side of the yard. “Imperia looks tough, but your mamma is una donna forte.”

“Conta le tue benedizioni, Bria,” Paolo said. “Not all mothers are strong.”

Bria paused a moment before replying because she sensed Paolo wanted to expand on what he had said, but he remained silent. “I assume your nephew just moved here. Otherwise Annamaria would’ve told me all about him.”

“Le chiacchierona di Positano hasn’t even met him yet,” Paolo said.

“Dio mio!” Bria cried. “You mean there’s something that the village gossip doesn’t know?”

“Annamaria hasn’t been herself lately,” Enrico said. “Preoc-cupata and making a lot of secret phone calls.”

“Veramente?” Bria said. “I’ve been so busy I haven’t noticed.”

“Mimi tried to talk to her to find out if something was wrong, but for once, Annamaria kept her mouth shut.” Enrico took the twig from Bravo again, but this time he held it in his hand rather than throwing it, causing Bravo to drop to the ground and sulk.

“There’s a first time for everything,” Bria said. “Vieni qui, Bravo. It’s time to go.”

Reluctantly, Bravo rose from his position to join Bria, who was already walking down the road. “Addio, Paolo. I look forward to meeting your nephew.”

This time Bria expected Paolo to hesitate before he replied, and he didn’t disappoint her. “Certo. I’ll make sure to bring him around.”

Even though Bria suspected Paolo was hiding something from her, she was more concerned about Annamaria. Not gossiping and making secret phone calls was not like Annamaria at all. The woman loved to talk and lived for gossip. Despite her chattiness, she was beloved, not only because she had a good heart but also because she made the best coffee and pastries on all of the Amalfi Coast.

Caffè Positano was the most popular café in town. It was cozy and inviting, every item on the menu was delicious, and it was a perfect place to relax with an iced cappuccino. Which was suddenly what Bria’s body was craving, most likely to counter the effects of her early morning limoncello. When she tried to open the front door, she knew something was very wrong. The café wasn’t open.

“This doesn’t make sense, Bravo. Annamaria’s café opens at seven a.m. every morning.” Bria looked at her watch. “It’s almost nine.”

Bria had started to walk to the side of the café, thinking Annamaria might be on the back patio, when the front door suddenly burst open. She whipped around and saw Annamaria locking the door, her cheeks growing red and her ample bosom rising up and down with each breath. “Annamaria! What’s wrong?”

When Annamaria saw Bria, she shrieked and ran toward her friend. “Niente, Bria. Everything is perfetto!”

“Why is the café locked?”

“Because I have to get ready for the filming tomorrow.”

“What filming?”

“For the new cooking show!”

“Whose show?”

“Chef Lugo’s!”

Annamaria didn’t have to say another word; Bria understood exactly why her friend was so excited. Luigi Gordonato—or Chef Lugo for short—was a celebrity chef known for applying modern culinary touches to traditional southern Italian dishes. Bria had used some of his recipes for her own menu at Bella Bella. Now she might get to meet the chef in person.

“I just got off the phone with his manager. He’s been calling me for the past week but swore me to secrecy!”

Now Annamaria’s anxiety and secret phone calls, which Enrico had talked about, made sense. When the town gossip had the juiciest gossip in years but couldn’t tell a soul, of course she’d be anxious.

“Massimo—he’s the manager—told me that Chef Lugo has a new book coming out. Amalfi Toast: Italian Family Recipes. And he’s going to start his book tour right here in Positano,” Annamaria explained.

“You don’t sell books. Mimi does,” Bria said. “Why isn’t he starting his book tour at A Word from Positano?”

“He is, but first, he’s going to turn Caffè Positano into a TV studio and film the first episode of his new series right here!”

“Che emozione!”

“Mark my words, Bria, this is going to be the most exciting thing that’s happened in the village in years!”

Bria had no idea how right her friend was.

When Bria got back to Bella Bella, there was more excitement waiting for her. As the owner of a B and B, Bria was used to having strangers in her home, but typically, those strangers had reservations. The three people who were standing in the dining area with luggage scattered around their feet looked like guests, and yet she knew that the online reservation portal that she and Giovanni had spent hours refining was empty. Bria would have addressed one of the three strangers directly if it weren’t for the presence of her best friend, Rosalie, among the group.

“Rosalie, would you mind explaining what’s going on?”

Bria waited for the response and expected her friend to relay some outrageous story of how her tour boat passengers had been stranded in Positano, but Rosalie didn’t say a word. She wasn’t trying to be obstinate; she simply couldn’t speak. She gasped for breath and bent over, placing her hands on her knees.

“Use your inhaler,” Bria said.

In response, Rosalie raised her right arm and opened her clenched fist to reveal her inhaler. A lifelong asthma sufferer, Rosalie never went anywhere without her inhaler, in case she suffered an asthma attack, like she appeared to be now. Bent over, her curly reddish-brown hair bobbing up and down with each labored breath, Rosalie took another hit from her inhaler and within moments was upright and breathing normally again. Her cheeks still matched the color of her hair, but otherwise Rosalie looked like her old self. When she spoke, she sounded like it, too.

“Fammi un favore, Bria. Build an escalator from the beach up to this place,” Rosalie barked. “No human being should be expected to walk up four hundred steps.”

“Why didn’t you take your scooter?” Bria asked.

“Mariana took the Piaggio to Praiano to pick up some pickles,” Rosalie explained. “A pickle manufacturer from Ireland reserved the boat for a party this weekend, and there’s a deli in Praiano that marinates them in garlic, lemons, quello che vuoi. You know I like to make my guests feel at home when they tour with me.”

Rosalie ran a tour boat company, and the tour boat, La Vie en Rosalie, also doubled as her home. She moved to Positano before Bria and was the one who told Carlo that the B and B he eventually bought was for sale. Having her best friend living only ten minutes away was a huge selling point for Bria and one of the reasons she immediately agreed to alter the course of her family’s life and relocate. Having a best friend like Rosalie living nearby also made life relentlessly interesting.

“Va . . .