When we got back to town, a mob blocked the entrance to Moroni’s. Half the visitors to the street festival must have crowded around the door. But the cafe-bakery was closed, and as I fought my way forward, a handwritten sign in the window came into view:
Sorry, no more cannoli.
“Oh, no,” I said. “Angelica's cannoli competition.”
My approach set off a chorus of complaints:
“Hey, lady, wait your turn.”
“I was here first. Get back in line.”
Ignoring the complaints, I rushed forward and unlocked the door and pulled it open.
The little bell jingled and Nat waved off the people who wanted to follow us inside, easing the door back into place and turning the lock.
Inside, Angelica sat at a table, her head down on the surface, her arms around it, hiding her face. Was she crying? Had she lost the cannoli competition—and how much was it my fault for neglecting her during the past couple of days?
I felt a deep tug of guilt in my gut.
“Angelica?” I asked softly, sitting down next to her and putting a hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right?”
She started a little under my touch, and then slowly raised her head. Her eyes were bleary. She blinked.
“Oh,” she said and yawned. “I fell asleep.”
I studied her red eyes, her haggard look. “Have you been crying? I thought maybe…” I swallowed. “The cannoli competition.”
Angelica lifted her head and reached above her head, stretching her arms.
“The competition?” she asked, sounding dazed from sleep. Then her eyes widened. “Oh, the competition.”
My heart beat faster. Had she actually fallen asleep and missed it?
Then a big smile broke out on her face.
“Mia cara, see for yourself.”
She gestured at something over my shoulder. I turned. On the wall, between a print of a gondola drifting down a Venetian canal and one of the Ponte Vecchio bridge in Florence, hung a framed certificate.
In gold letters, it said, “Moroni’s Italian Bakery—#1 Cannoli in New Jersey.”
I let out a shriek and threw my arms around Angelica, and we both laughed. Nat congratulated Angelica with a high five.
“This is amazing, Angelica,” I said. “Tell me everything.”
The judges of the competition had agreed unanimously: Moroni’s cannolis with chopped pistachios were the best. The effect of the announcement, however, was to send the entire street full of people over to Moroni’s to buy cannolis—a demand that far exceeded the supply.
“I planned on having 300 cannolis ready,” Angelica said. “I would have needed twice as many. Within an hour, I’d sold them all, and by the time I sold everything else—pignoli, pizzelle, amaretti, you name it—I had to put a sign in the window to stop people from crowding in.”
She motioned toward the glass display case—it was empty. Only crumbs remained.
“After that, I was so exhausted, I sat down and must have fallen asleep.”
She put a hand to her chest, embarrassed. “But look at me gabbing away. Earlier on, I heard sirens. What have I missed?”
“It’s a long story,” I said.
“Good,” she said. “I like long stories. Sit down. I’m making us all coffees.”
When she’d made us all a caffe lungo each, she excused herself and went into the back. She returned with a plate. On the plate sat three cannolis.
“What’s this?” I said. “You said they were all sold out.”
“My grandmother always said, ‘In every batch, save a bunch for the bakers, and the bakers’ kin.’ It’s a good rule.” She gave me a wink. “Because who doesn’t need a cannoli at the end of a killer day like this?”
I couldn’t argue with that.
We each bit into our cannoli. The shell crunched pleasantly in my mouth and mixed with the heavenly ricotta. I closed my eyes, enjoying the moment.
This was the good life.
* * *
The next morning, I woke to the sound of a vehicle outside. I peeked through the blinds in my bedroom and saw the mail truck idling in my driveway.
I pulled on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and, in the hallway, my sneakers.
Outside my front door, the air was cool and fresh, the humid weather swept away by a north-easterly breeze. I drew in a deep breath, savoring the scent of grass and roses from nearby yards.
U.S. Marshall Roberta LaRosa was waiting for me behind the wheel.
“Ready?” she asked.
I scooted onto the passenger-side seat.
Roberta put the truck in reverse and soon we were rumbling pleasantly down the street.
As we rolled down the street, we passed a man in a green baseball cap who was tugging his dog leash, his Irish setter busy sniffing a tree. A woman bent down and picked up the newspaper from her driveway, and waved at the mail truck. Roberta turned into another neighborhood. On Pavarotti Street, we saw deer grazing on the dewy grass. The world was at peace.
Roberta gazed out the window. “You really like it in Carmine, huh?”
“The computer was right.”
“The computer?”
“Yeah, the computer you told me chose the town based on 399 factors.”
“Yes. The computer.”
I glanced at her. She didn’t look back. Roberta’s reaction struck me as odd, but I couldn’t figure out why.
I decided I was done with mysteries for now, though, and returned my attention to the scenic ride.
We drove along in silence, watching Carmine wake up to a new day. Another mail truck came rumbling toward us, and as it passed, the driver held up a hand in greeting.
“A colleague?” I asked, wondering if every mail truck was, in fact, a cover for a U.S. Marshall on business.
“I’m friendly with the local USPS team. Nice folks.” She turned the truck down another street. Then said, “I still think you’d be safer in Alaska. But Harry’s in detention, and he’s confessed to attempting to kill you. Not just that, the guy blabbed about his involvement in the drugs and guns business—he’ll join his brother in prison for a long, long time. Still, you never know what crazy Casanova-loving nuts are lurking out there.”
“What does Chief Tedesco say?”
“Oh, you know what she says. She’s got nothing but good things to say about you and your future in Carmine. If she weren’t vouching for you, I wouldn’t allow you to stay. I don’t know how you won her over, but you’ve clearly made a friend for life.”
She turned the steering wheel, and we drifted onto Garibaldi Avenue. She pulled up to the curb by Moroni’s Italian Bakery. The curtains were still drawn.
Good. Angelica isn’t up earlier than she needs to be.
“Wonder what will happen to the cafe,” Roberta said.
Across the street, Cafe Roma looked abandoned. The metal shutters were down, the windows closed on the first floor.
“Mark Lewis bequeathed everything he owned to a charity for single mothers,” I said. “I guess we’ll see if they sell the property or use it for one of their thrift shops.”
Roberta shook her head. “I can’t believe you actually found his handwritten will. So Susan’s crazy scheme to inherit had been pointless from the beginning.”
“If she’d known about Mark’s will, she might not have killed him or Liz. But then again, maybe she would have looked for the will, destroyed it, and then committed murder, anyway. She was crazy. All because she wanted money to launch her Hollywood acting career, and she couldn’t wait. She couldn’t wait to become famous.”
Her motive, which had emerged after her arrest, reminded me of the reason Jay Casanova, despite already being rich and successful, had smuggled drugs and guns: He had wanted more, faster. It seemed Susan suffered from the same greedy impulse.
I no longer had to worry about Susan Davis anymore, though.
I gazed out at Garibaldi Avenue. Carlo’s Restaurant. Parisi & Parisi’s. Russo's Realty. Milano Books. Further down, Martini’s Italian Market and the Public Library and Historical Society. And all the other places I now loved and thought of as home.
After a week filled with so much excitement, it was wonderful to sense the deep peacefulness that reigned in Carmine. From now on, my life would be blissfully simple, my biggest challenge learning how to make a killer cannoli.
A police cruiser pulled over to the curb in front of us. The driver’s door opened and Anthony stepped out.
Maybe not just cannoli. Maybe also a bit of romance.
“I’ll leave you to your date,” Roberta said. And she gave me a nod. “Glad we got a happy ending, after all.”
“Not an ending, Roberta, but a beginning. A new beginning.”
I opened the door and jumped out of the mail truck. I called out Anthony’s name. He waved at me, smiling, holding up two cups of takeout coffee.
Our first morning date.
And not, if I had my way, our last.
* * *
Thank you so much for visiting Carmine. Join Bernie and her friends for another culinary cozy mystery in book 2:
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Turn the page to read chapter 1 of Sambuca, Secrets, and Murder (Book 2)…