"So what?" she bluffed. "I didn't have anything to do with-"

And then Joe swept the beer bottle right off the table. In the mess of broken gla.s.s and spraying beer, he growled, "Quit stalling, Alma."

Dazzled by such fine misdirection, I dove under the table and wrestled Alma's right shoe off her foot. Scrambling to my feet, I held it up like a trophy and pointed triumphantly at the bald patch on the beige canvas vamp. "This is the shoe you were wearing the morning you killed him."

She made an unsuccessful swipe at it. "You have no right to-"

I backed out of reach. "You were so busy with the marble mortar, you never even noticed that your, er, craft glue failed you in your moment of homicidal need." Was I laying it on too thick?

Alma shot me a defiant glare. "You can't prove anything!" she jeered, jerking her head toward the silver studs on the plate. Her hand darted toward them.

When she made a grab for it, Joe quickly pulled it away and slipped the napkin back into place. "Oh, yes, we can. The report from the crime lab just came back, and those studs show glue, canvas residue, and sc.r.a.pes from a small set of pliers. While you've been here tonight, the cops have been searching your apartment."

She looked trapped, and I almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

I leaned across the table. "Finding those pliers, and matching them to the studs found at the crime is just a matter of time. So why don't you tell us why you killed poor Arlen, my nonna's boyfriend, a fine man who made her happy?" How long would I have to trowel it on before she snapped? "He treated her like a queen and he loved Italian opera and Caruso, and Caruso records, and Caruso songs that were-"

She exploded. And not a moment too soon. I was about to nod off. "Oh, shut up!" she shouted. "Shut up, shut up, shut up!" Shaking with fury, she pushed herself to her feet. "You stupid little self-important prig!" I tried to tell myself she must be referring to Joe, but she did happen to be glaring at me. "What do you know about any of it! What do you know about anything outside of your precious stupid kitchen and your impossible grandmother, who twirls around and rakes it in and-and-bestows pitiful jobs on needy friends who once had more money than any of you will ever have!"

Joe and I sat very still while she hit her stride, describing how she and Jack Toscano, the sweetest, gentlest man on the face of this earth had been a high-powered Philadelphia society couple until that thief Maximiliano Scotti came along as their financial adviser. He had lost and mismanaged what he couldn't just plain steal of their money, sailing close enough to the wind to avoid prosecution and finally disappearing. But not before Jack, after a few years of not being able to climb out of the ruins of their life, killed himself. In front of her. That's what she'd had to live with. Every single day.

"When Scotti turned up again, calling himself Arlen Mather, he didn't recognize me. Why would he?" Alma's shaking hands swept through the air around her. "Look what he had made me!" She choked back a sob. "I even waited on him once, one night when you were off," she jerked her chin at me, "and he still didn't recognize me. So then I bided my time, following him-until last week." She had a satisfied, faraway look in her eye.

Alma stood very tall, and I saw a flash of her former self. "After Maria Pia dropped him off out front, I quietly followed him inside, into the kitchen, and picked up the mortar. When he finally heard me and started to turn, I told him this was for Jack. And then I brought it down on his head. Again and again and again." She let out a sigh of pleasure. "I haven't felt that good since Jack and I attended the ribbon cutting for the Toscano Psychiatry wing at St. Joseph's Hospital." She gazed at us serenely.

I heard a sound behind me, and a uniformed cop came out from behind the compost bin. As he handcuffed Alma and read her her rights, Joe and I grinned at each other in relief. The Festa della Repubblica revelers spilled into the courtyard, but when they saw what was going down, even the concertina stopped. As Alma limped away in the cop's firm grip, she suddenly reached down, whipped off her remaining shoe, and hurtled it away from her. And then I saw Choo Choo take off through the crowd, and I smiled. He'd arrive at the police station well before the cruiser pulled up with Alma Toscano inside.

19.

I sat alone at the table in the back of the courtyard, listening to the night sounds. Everyone had departed. Joe had taken off after Choo Choo, and Landon had taken off after Joe. Some of the revelers replaced the flag, while others called cabs. A few went back into the dining room and settled up their bills. And Paulette and Giancarlo brought me a shot of Laphroaig on a silver tray. Apparently they had fought over who got to present it.

Our beloved regulars drifted in at the usual time. The night air was warm, and I closed my eyes. I could hear the deep thrum of the ba.s.s, and a run on the bongos. Even the clarinet had shown up. Dana was warming up with scales, and I thought how wonderful it was to love something so much that it really didn't matter if you weren't very good at it. Mrs. Crawford was still at the piano, and it finally felt like this was the known world, after all.

Miracolo and Market Square and my beloved family.

Though I no longer needed legal services from my lawyer, that didn't rule out other possibilities. I imagined us dancing alone in the courtyard, I in my hot red sheath, he in his floral swim trunks, while Mrs. Crawford turned "Your Eyes Have Told Me What I Did Not Know" into dance music.

As I finished my shot, I heard a distant commotion and what sounded like a drumroll made by dozens of hands. Shouts of joy went up inside. I stood up with a smile and headed back to the inviting lights of our restaurant. In the dining room, I heard a familiar voice complaining about that strega Alma Toscano, killer of perfectly nice boyfriends.

I'd die before I'd ever tell her that the perfectly nice boyfriend had called her an "elderly friend" to Calladine.

Then the raggedy little band started up, and as I stood for one minute longer inside the doors to the dining room, Landon popped his head in to say that Joe had gone home. That was okay; I could thank him later. The musicians started playing "Three Coins in the Fountain," and our two divas started bellowing out the words.

When I pushed open the double doors, there she was, her fresh lipstick a little smudged, her skirts fully deployed as she twirled around the floor. My nonna. Sprung.

I headed over toward her . . . but there was the little matter of the cannoli, and I hesitated.

She caught sight of me then, stopped twirling, and stopped trying to outdo Dana. And without any hesitation, my nonna came over to me, spread her arms wide, and took me in.

Eve's Recipe for the Rebel Cannoli

You can purchase cannoli tubes online or at a specialty store. They come in packages of four, and each tube measures 1x8".

FOR THE Sh.e.l.l:.

11/2 cups all-purpose flour 2 tablespoons granulated sugar 11/2 tablespoons b.u.t.ter, cut into pieces 1 egg, separated 1/4 cup Soave or Pinot Grigio (both are from northern Italy, so Maria Pia would at least approve of the wine, if not the cannoli) 11/2 teaspoons white vinegar 1 tablespoon water Mix the flour and sugar. Cut in the b.u.t.ter. Into an indentation in the center, add the egg yolk, just half the egg white (set aside the remainder), the wine, vinegar, and water. Mix to form a dough, then knead for 10 minutes. Cover and chill for an hour. On a floured surface, roll out the dough nearly paper thin. Then cut the dough into rounds (about 34 inches' diameter) using the rim of a margarita gla.s.s.

Roll each round securely around a cannoli tube. Beat a little water into the remaining egg white. Where the dough overlaps, brush both the underside and the topside with the slightly beaten egg white to seal. Fry in deep, hot canola oil (about 350) until golden. Watch carefully! Remove and drain on paper towels. When cool enough to handle, slide each cannoli sh.e.l.l off its tube. Let cool completely before filling.

FOR THE FILLING:.

2 cups whole milk ricotta cheese 1/3 cup powdered sugar 1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract 1/8 cup dark chocolate, shaved 1 ounce chocolate liqueur 1/2 cup heavy cream Drain the ricotta well. Combine the ricotta, powdered sugar, and vanilla extract. Add the shaved chocolate and chocolate liqueur. Whip the heavy cream to stiff peaks, then fold into the mixture. Chill the filling for about 30 minutes before piping into cooled cannoli sh.e.l.ls. Sprinkle additional chocolate or powdered sugar on top, if you like.

TIPS:.

1. Eve loves the double chocolate effect of the shaved dark chocolate ("Is there any other kind?") and chocolate liqueur in this recipe, but you can subst.i.tute Frangelico, a hazelnut liqueur from northern Italy, if you want to go nuts.

2. Don't prea.s.semble your cannoli because the sh.e.l.ls will get soggy. Instead, fill the sh.e.l.ls close to the serving time, and refrigerate.

3. Use a regular pot for deep frying the sh.e.l.ls. Deep fryers (without settings) get too hot and pop the sh.e.l.ls apart.

4. If you don't have a pastry bag, you can use a Ziploc bag by snipping off a corner!

Turn the page for a sneak peek at the next delicious Italian Restaurant mystery from Sh.e.l.ley Costa

The Ziti That Never Sleeps Available from Pocket Books January 2014

1.

At 9:41 p.m. on June 16th, I uttered those fateful words: "How bad can it be?" If you didn't tumble out of your crib just yesterday, you know that the universe hears those words as a challenge. So it sends you a hurricane or a tax audit or a new man who still lives with his mother. Even so, I didn't see it coming.

As the head chef at Miracolo Italian Restaurant, I had just been plating an order of vitello alla bolognese when our best server, Paulette Coniglio, one of those st.u.r.dy middle-aged women with a wedge cut and expensive highlights, handed me a violet envelope. Someone had left it on the table, stuck between the salt cellar and the ornamental bamboo.

I took the envelope and gave it a look. Navy blue calligraphy on card stock. Back flap sealed with a round blob of navy blue wax, embossed with the letter B. Addressed to Chef Maria Pia Angelotta-my nonna (Italian for annoying grandmother), who owns Miracolo.

"So who left it?" I asked.

Paulette shrugged. "Two well-dressed women who knew enough to get the Barolo with the veal."

I like this woman for a couple of reasons. First, she used to date my father, Giacomo (Jock) Angelotta and she stuck around even after he didn't. Second, she is the field commander you want in all the battles of daily life.

"Ah," I said appreciatively, "foodies." Wine selection is always the giveaway.

Paulette's gaze swung to my cousin Landon, my sous chef, who was garnishing an order of his profiteroles and doing the famous hat lift from the Bob Fosse number, "I Wanna Be a Dancin' Man." Her eyes narrowed. "Mm," she hummed, shaking her head slowly, "something more."

"More? What could that be?" I had been so busy during the dinner rush that I hadn't poked my head out of the kitchen even once. "Did Maria Pia recognize them?"

She'd been swanning around the dining room all evening. My grandmother sincerely believes our customers come because of her. The rest of us believe they come in spite of her.

"I don't think so." Paulette is my ally in my ongoing effort to keep the dragon (Maria Pia) at bay in the business of the restaurant, which is why she always keeps me in the loop rea.s.suringly ahead of my wild-card granny.

I brought the violet envelope next to my ear, squeezed it between my fingers, and then held it up to the overhead lights. "Well," I said philosophically, "it's not ticking, oozing white powder, or holding cash, so I think I'm losing interest."

She held out her hand. "I'll give it to Maria Pia."

Which is when I said with a shrug, "How bad can it be?"

I found out just two minutes later, when my grandmother flung open the double doors to the kitchen and stood there dazed, the opened envelope hanging loosely between her fingers. Out in the dining room the regulars were tuning up, trying to find an A they could agree on. They're amateur musicians who several years ago decided Miracolo was the perfect place to try out their stuff in public. To get the picture, think squatters with musical instruments. Maybe none of them has a garage.

"It's happened," Maria Pia croaked, her arms pushed quivering against the double doors like she was trying to launch a lifeboat from the t.i.tanic. Her expression was ragged.

"What?" I asked as I plated an order of risotto. "You finally been invited to a baby shower?"

"It should only be yours," she answered in a strange voice, staring past me. Looking at my nonna, it's hard to tell the difference between alarm and ecstasy, which must have complicated her love life with my grandfather, the sainted Benigno.

At seventy-six, Maria Pia Angelotta is pretty much what you'd call a babe-with wrinkles. These she slathers nightly with half a dozen different creams labeled "cremes" to jack up the price. She looks a lot like Anne Bancroft; those big wide-set dark eyes, that broad and sensuous mouth. From her I got my good legs, something she never lets me forget, although hers are shorter-something I never let her forget.

"Then what, Nonna?"

"It's Belfiere."

Which didn't clear it up. "And Belfiere is-?" I prompted her slowly.

Nonna got testy. "Have your pants cut off the circulation to your brain?" She believes I've ruined all my chances at a niceItalianboy by preferring pants to skirts. I resist telling her that niceItalianboys have no trouble getting past garments of any sort. And I do mean getting past. "Belfiere is the oldest culinary society in the-the-world."

Landon and I exchanged a look. His said: Do you think it's time to take her in for an evaluation? Mine said: I thought this blessed day would never come.

Landon cranked up his help-me-to-understand expression, leaned into her, and said, "Kind of like the American Culinary Federation, Nonna?"

I crossed my arms. "Or . . . The American Cheese Society?"

She hit us both with the violet-colored invitation. "No, you ninnies, not at all like those." This was followed with a spray of sentiments half in Italian that-from what I could follow-compared Landon and me to that traitor, Little Serena, her other granddaughter, whom she likened to bread made with expired yeast and then taken off to the woods by non-Italian wolves. (But then, my Italian is a little rusty.) All Little Serena had done was to come out of the culinary closet-"I don't cook"-after which she blew town to work at Disney World.

I held out my hand. "Can I see the invite, Nonna?"

Nonna, a soft little nursery rhyme kind of word. Makes you picture some mild-mannered, smiling human cushion that sh.e.l.ls peas, slips you five dollars if she thinks you studied your catechism, and uses her loose dress as a dish towel. But this would be somebody else's nonna, not mine.

She glared at me. "Of course you can't see it. It's not for the uninitiated."

Landon went for logic. "Well, you're uninitiated."

Maria Pia gave him the look she usually reserves for overcooked pasta. "Yes, but I am among the chosen." She clutched the invitation to her generous breast. "Belfiere," she explained in the hushed tone usually reserved for deathbeds, "is two hundred years old. It's a secret society of no more than fifty chefs-all women, no men-and you can't apply to become a member. You are selected by a secret process." Her expressive eyes widened. In awe, I thought. Maybe fear. Hard to tell. "And inducted in secret."

I know it took a lot for Landon not to roll his eyes; I was fighting the same urge. "We get it, Nonna-it's very hush-hush," he said.

"Well, what do they actually do, these Belfiere ladies?" I asked.

"Do?" Nonna gasped. "Do? They don't have to 'do' anything. They just"-she exhaled reverently-"are."

"Well," I said, scratching my head, "are you going to have time for this secret cooking club? I mean, the restaurant kind of needs you." Was I crazy? Belfiere could be the perfect excuse to get her out of my hair.

Chef Maria Pia Angelotta pulled herself up straight and gave me a stony look. "You don't understand. This is not some little club for"-her fingers twiddled the air in the Italian gesture that says you are so inconsequential, even my fingers are bored-"tap dancers or hairdressers. Belfiere is the greatest honor in all the world for a woman chef. If you are called," she said, rippling an eyebrow at me, "you go."

Landon looked alarmed. "What do you mean, you go? Is it a commune? Do you have to sell all your stuff and go live with them?" He was winding himself up, but it was alarm I happened to share. "If so," he finished with a self-conscious little laugh, "I get the Art Deco blue mohair armchair. Please, oh, please. Just remember I'm your oldest grandchild."

I elbowed him in the ribs.

"I'm not going anywhere," she said imperiously. Then she lifted the invitation and scrutinized the printed instructions. "That's not how it works. Tomorrow will be busy. I start preparing for the special meal I create as part of my initiation-so we'll be needing extra help."

Landon groaned. "Extra help?"

"Cooking? Serving? What do you mean?" I asked.

She waved us off, lost in a daydream about hobn.o.bbing with her fellow wizards. "Belfiere," she said, all choked up. "I can hardly believe it. I only wish Benigno had lived to see it," she finished with a magnificent sniff.

Then she bit her lower lip and stared at a far corner of the ceiling. "So much to do," she said, turning away, tapping the invitation against her hand. "First thing tomorrow, I get my Belfiere tattoo."

Tattoo?