Read Online Basil Instinct by Shelley Costa - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Shelley Costa
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me in mind of bedsheets. The depressed and Austrian Arne was stacking table linens in the store room and muttering to himself that no good could come of it. I figured he was referring either to Belfiere or to the Phillies/Yankees series starting that night.
Maria Pia started dashing in and out of the office, her skirts all in a swirl, proclaiming something about pantry pests and new shipments of semolina flour for the saltimbocca—throughout the raving, her hands had tugged her thick salt-and-pepper hair into the stratosphere.
At the fateful moment I spotted Choo Choo out in the dining room, the only voice I was hearing that made sense was Mick Jagger’s going on about Jumping Jack Flash, which should tell you something. “Choo Choo!” I yelled, cursing myself for not remembering to put on my tennis shoes.
At that moment he was leaning on the podium—as maître d’, his center of operations—chatting up James Beck, Joe’s florist brother, who used to make my sore heart break out into four-part harmony until, well, he didn’t anymore. James was the taller Beck brother, the married Beck brother, the Beck brother you want to turn to in an orchid emergency, and the one who leaves a trail of swooning males and females, if what you like is obvious good looks and you don’t mind the total absence of dimples.
“Choo Choo!” I yelled again, unmindful of the swarming vendors with all their various produce and products. My big cousin, who had dropped another two pounds, looked at me blandly like he was tuning in to some distant sound that was only infinitesimally interesting.
Too bad the object of his affection, Vera Tyndall, was smiling at me and smoothing out the linen cloth across table 8. Shame to see the big guy scamper like a bunny. I headed toward him, my jaw working. This was the man who had talked me into babysitting the CRIBS crew, who were on the lookout for their first felony the way normal people scouted out prom dates.
“Hi, Eve,” he said, turning back to working out an order with James Beck.
Apparently I wasn’t transmitting my displeasure sufficiently.
He stood his ground.
Was my voice alone not fearsome enough?
I flung my arm up in a broad sweep in the Italian gesture that translates as If your head were a bocce ball I would pitch it from here to kingdom come . “What’s the matter with you?” Turning to James, I smiled. “Would you excuse us, please, James?” With that I walked my monumental cousin out the front door, where I backed him up against the window. “Why are you trying to kill me, Chooch?”
He looked genuinely perplexed. “What are you talking about? Oh, say, how did your first class go?”
I gave him a little whoosh of a push, which was like taking a feather duster to Mount Rushmore. “Well, if the goal was Eve flambé, then I’d say it went pretty well.”
The light dawned. “The CRIBS kids, right? Yeah”—he actually chuckled—“they can really push buttons, huh?”
“We’re not talking merry pranksters, Choo Choo.” I got in his face. “They tried to set me on fire. And now, thanks to you, I’ve got them for a month. In a classroom filled with knives and rolling pins and marble cutting boards and cast-iron skillets and—” With a yelp I pressed my lips together and whispered, “meat grinders.” I shook my head, dazed. “It’s like Supermarket Sweepstakes for delinquents.”
Thoroughly entertained, Choo Choo waved dismissively. “They’re just yanking your chain.”
“After they’ve wrapped it around my neck!”
The big guy pulled me in for a hug—practicing for a shot at Vera, I thought—and reminded me how our job as humans is not just to provide good food but also—here he took a deep breath, signaling he was lobbing something profound at me—to be good food. I had a quick, disturbing image of myself trussed up in a roasting pan with Mitchell and Slash wearing oven mitts, but I pushed it from my mind as Choo Choo held me at arm’s
Maria Pia started dashing in and out of the office, her skirts all in a swirl, proclaiming something about pantry pests and new shipments of semolina flour for the saltimbocca—throughout the raving, her hands had tugged her thick salt-and-pepper hair into the stratosphere.
At the fateful moment I spotted Choo Choo out in the dining room, the only voice I was hearing that made sense was Mick Jagger’s going on about Jumping Jack Flash, which should tell you something. “Choo Choo!” I yelled, cursing myself for not remembering to put on my tennis shoes.
At that moment he was leaning on the podium—as maître d’, his center of operations—chatting up James Beck, Joe’s florist brother, who used to make my sore heart break out into four-part harmony until, well, he didn’t anymore. James was the taller Beck brother, the married Beck brother, the Beck brother you want to turn to in an orchid emergency, and the one who leaves a trail of swooning males and females, if what you like is obvious good looks and you don’t mind the total absence of dimples.
“Choo Choo!” I yelled again, unmindful of the swarming vendors with all their various produce and products. My big cousin, who had dropped another two pounds, looked at me blandly like he was tuning in to some distant sound that was only infinitesimally interesting.
Too bad the object of his affection, Vera Tyndall, was smiling at me and smoothing out the linen cloth across table 8. Shame to see the big guy scamper like a bunny. I headed toward him, my jaw working. This was the man who had talked me into babysitting the CRIBS crew, who were on the lookout for their first felony the way normal people scouted out prom dates.
“Hi, Eve,” he said, turning back to working out an order with James Beck.
Apparently I wasn’t transmitting my displeasure sufficiently.
He stood his ground.
Was my voice alone not fearsome enough?
I flung my arm up in a broad sweep in the Italian gesture that translates as If your head were a bocce ball I would pitch it from here to kingdom come . “What’s the matter with you?” Turning to James, I smiled. “Would you excuse us, please, James?” With that I walked my monumental cousin out the front door, where I backed him up against the window. “Why are you trying to kill me, Chooch?”
He looked genuinely perplexed. “What are you talking about? Oh, say, how did your first class go?”
I gave him a little whoosh of a push, which was like taking a feather duster to Mount Rushmore. “Well, if the goal was Eve flambé, then I’d say it went pretty well.”
The light dawned. “The CRIBS kids, right? Yeah”—he actually chuckled—“they can really push buttons, huh?”
“We’re not talking merry pranksters, Choo Choo.” I got in his face. “They tried to set me on fire. And now, thanks to you, I’ve got them for a month. In a classroom filled with knives and rolling pins and marble cutting boards and cast-iron skillets and—” With a yelp I pressed my lips together and whispered, “meat grinders.” I shook my head, dazed. “It’s like Supermarket Sweepstakes for delinquents.”
Thoroughly entertained, Choo Choo waved dismissively. “They’re just yanking your chain.”
“After they’ve wrapped it around my neck!”
The big guy pulled me in for a hug—practicing for a shot at Vera, I thought—and reminded me how our job as humans is not just to provide good food but also—here he took a deep breath, signaling he was lobbing something profound at me—to be good food. I had a quick, disturbing image of myself trussed up in a roasting pan with Mitchell and Slash wearing oven mitts, but I pushed it from my mind as Choo Choo held me at arm’s
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