Death Over Easy by Maddie Day

Author:Maddie Day
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2018-05-16T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-six

Roberto savored a bite of his batter-fried catfish. “Mmm, exactly like I remembered it. Your friend, the chef, she is very talented.” He smiled.

“She is,” I agreed. We’d been at Hoosier Hollow restaurant for forty-five minutes. Christina had sent out a complimentary appetizer sampler, which we’d leisurely enjoyed with our first round of drinks. The place, open less than a year, was within walking distance of my store, and was thriving, by the looks of it. Every table was full, and I was glad I’d made reservations.

Maria had opted for the chicken in a creamy wine-mushroom sauce over savory grits after my father explained grits were a lot like polenta. “I am sorry, no Abe,” she said.

“Anch’io,” I said, trying out what I thought was Italian for “I am, too.”

Maria laughed and nodded.

“Molto bene, Roberta,” Roberto said.

I took another bite of my Cajun crayfish stew, a delectable thick sauce brimming with crayfish tails, which thankfully had already been shelled. I inhaled the flavors of the fishy meat, the rich tomato sauce, the herbs and peppers and onions all cooked down together. It was served over white rice and was spicy enough to suit my California taste buds. A candle flickered in a jar on the table. The artwork on the walls, quirky scenes painted in a folk-art style, reflected summer in Brown County. One had teens cannonballing off a huge boulder into a clear lake. Another showed a busy farmers’ market, with an Amish family selling vegetables and jars of honey, while the painting closest to us featured a canopy of leaves and two girls fishing next to a red covered bridge. I glanced at it and then glanced away. Covered bridges weren’t my idea of a good time right now.

“How was your visit to Adele’s farm?” I asked. I’d phoned her to see if she could take Abe’s place at dinner, but she and Samuel had other plans.

“I love the sheeps,” Maria said.

“Adele works hard there,” Roberto said. “She is not young. She keeps all those animals and has a big garden, too.”

“I know, but she loves it.” I sipped the cool, crisp pinot gris we’d ordered. “Maybe it keeps her feeling young to be so active.”

My father nodded.

I gazed at him, this man I looked so much like but knew so little of. “Tell me about your life when you were growing up. What did you like to do? What games did you play? What was your favorite food?” The kinds of things he might have told me as I was growing up, except we hadn’t had the chance.

Roberto laughed. “You know, I was a typical Italian boy. I played the football—what you call soccer. I went to mass. I ate what my mama served me, except I didn’t like olives. Too salty.”

I smiled. “I didn’t like olives when I was young, either.”

“We had lots of talking in my family at the dinner table. Politics, history, everything. So later I was on the discussione team, when I was sixteen.

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