Read Online Basil Instinct by Shelley Costa - Free Book Online Page A

out front. But I had hired Georgia Payne for Landon, so I went into some detail.
    Georgia Payne looked to me to be in her late thirties—forty, tops—and was back in school, from what I could tell, as kind of a refresher course, having been out of the food industry for a while. No wedding band, no mention of kids. A petite blonde with dark roots. Conservative but stylish dresser what with her long sleeves and below-the-knee skirt on a summer day. A quiet personality. “She’s here for Nonna’s big Belfiere thing to make your life easier, Lan, okay?”
    He liked the idea of personal help. “Understood.” Then, taking in a big breath, he gave me a probing look. “As long as you can stand by her kitchen skills, dollink, because I don’t want to have to teach.”
    I studied the ceiling. “Let’s put it this way,” I said judiciously, “when I announced we were going to be making polenta next time, Georgia Payne wanted to know where we keep the flat whisk.” Only the initiated would know that a flat whisk keeps the cooking polenta off the sides of the pan, where it likes to hang out.
    Landon gave me his flat, broad smile, contented. “She’ll do,” he said, tipping his chin at me. “Oh,” he suddenly remembered, “ Numquam Nimis Multi Cultri?”
    I nodded. “The Belfiere motto?”
    “I went online to the Latin Forum and posted it, asking for a translation.”
    I was interested. “And?”
    “And,” he preened, “I got a hit.”
    “So what is it? ‘Protect Your Nonnas’?”
    Landon gingerly slid off the stool, curling a forearm around my neck. In a low voice, he told me, “ ‘Never Too Many Knives.’ ” We gave each other that look in the old movie when the snowbound weekend guests realize they’re locked in with the killer.
    At that moment Kayla shouldered her way through the back door, toting a yellow bin of produce from the back of her van. I crossed my arms, and, despite my best efforts, my nostrils flared. Someday I’d really have to learn a proper malocchio at my nonna’s knee. Just as an insurance policy against the maddening worst of Kayla. Today she was wearing light denim shorts overalls and a pink floral tank top. Her tanned legs ended in steel-toed boots. It was, admittedly, kind of a cute look if what you were going for was Farmer Chic. A matching floral stretch headband was controlling her gobs of curly hair.
    I found myself wondering what she was wearing to the dinner dance.
    At the Philly Ritz Carlton.
    As Joe Beck’s date.
    “You can just set the order down on the far counter, Kayla,” I told her with a grim smile. I couldn’t manage anything better than grim. She lifted an eyebrow and I swear she was trying to communicate that she was not communicating something. Did she really think she was putting one over on me about kicking up her steel-toed heels with Joe Beck? Two can play at that game, missy. “Things good in Kayla Land, cuz?”
    She boosted the load with an assist from her hip, and once she had set it on the counter, sheturned to me, with a hand on one hip. “Busy,” she said with the kind of smile that made da Vinci slap oils on canvas.
    Busy!
    Busy!
    I didn’t need to post anything on an online forum to know that “busy” translates into Poor little Eve, your lawyer and I are doing the electric slide, and, honey, it has nothing to do with a dance floor.
    “You?” she challenged.
    I looked demure. “Also,” was all I said, with a quick look at my fingernails.
    “Ah.” She grinned, heading for the back door for the rest of the order. She actually wrinkled her generous nose at me and said like a confiding girlfriend, “Sandor?” With a bleat, she dashed out.
    So many things started happening at once that I didn’t have time to contemplate a witty comeback. Sandor himself actually leered and toothlessly grinned his way through the laying of the carpet (better the carpet than me) at the back door, making some kind of gesture that I believe was meant to put