cardboard ID tag dangling from it. “Be careful,” he said, opening the squeaky door and leading us into a scene out of Armageddon.
Chapter Eight
The blackened kitchen looked as if a giant had reached down in a fit of rage and flung its contents about the room. Tables, stools, pots, pans, dishes, chairs were smashed and scattered willy-nilly. Even the outsized stove had been shoved to one side, the oven doors hanging open, unrecognizable remnants of food still visible on its surface. Ripped from the piping, the utility sink lay smashed on the floor. Next to it sat a dented can. The label read Contadina Tomato Paste.
For Mama Luigi’s Sunday Lasagna .
Over all, the odor of charred wood clogged the air like a barbeque gone terribly wrong. Chip’s glance collided with mine before we both looked away. “I can’t salvage a thing from here. Except maybe the food locker.”
The stainless steel walk-in refrigerator appeared intact. Trying not to breathe deeply of the acrid air, I peered inside. It was empty. Someone had disposed of whatever food it once held.
“The kitchen got hit the hardest. You can thank that refrigerator for saving your life,” Rossi said, obviously trying to strike a positive note. “And it sheltered the dining room from the worst of the damage.”
He walked through an opening that once held swinging doors separating the work space from the public areas. “Be careful,” he warned again as we trailed after him. “There’s glass everywhere.”
At least, with chunks of the roof blown away, we could see where we were stepping. And like nearly all buildings in Florida, this one had no basement for us to fall into.
Moving gingerly, we followed Rossi into the restaurant dining room. The lovely appetite-enhancing colors were filthy, replaced with soot, stains and gouges. Two steps in, I trod on a photograph of Venice—St. Mark’s Square at twilight—and wanted to weep. Chip and I had selected the photographs with such care. Except for one or two torn from their frames, I didn’t see any of the others. This time, I didn’t dare look Chip’s way.
“Hello, hello! Anybody home?”
At the sudden loud voice, we all stiffened and turned toward the kitchen. Francesco and Donny strode in, their shoes crunching on the fallen glass.
“Remember us?” Francesco said, his booming voice echoing off the walls. Donny as usual was silent. A smart maneuver for a major player in this disaster.
“How did you know we were here?” Chip asked.
“I called the house earlier looking for you,” Francesco said. “Ms. Baranski here told me you were coming over. I’ve been waiting to assess the situation, so I owe you one, Ms. Baranski.”
“AudreyAnn, please,” she said, sending a darting glance Donny’s way.
Francesco nodded, his eyes focused on her chest. With a visible effort, he tore his glance away and turned to Rossi. “Now that arson’s out of the picture, how about a key to that sorry excuse for a backdoor?”
“Of course. There’s one at the station with your name on it. As for arson, it can’t be proven one way or the other. That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means what I said it means.” Rossi’s jaw clenched.
Francesco grunted and looked around at the gutted room. “Hellava mess in here.” He pointed a finger at Chip. “We got some deciding to do.”
Chip coughed and shook his head. “My deciding’s done.” Clinging to AudreyAnn with one hand, he waved the other around the room. “My insurance won’t cover this. I’m wiped out.”
I sneaked a peek at Donny. If he suffered from remorse, he concealed the fact well. As rigid as a cigar store Indian, he didn’t twitch a muscle.
Still holding tight to AudreyAnn, Chip eased over to the bar. “Even the liquor stock’s gone. And I bought the best. What a waste.”
“Not entirely. Look at this!” On a shelf behind the bar near where the cash register once stood, I spied an intact
Chapter Eight
The blackened kitchen looked as if a giant had reached down in a fit of rage and flung its contents about the room. Tables, stools, pots, pans, dishes, chairs were smashed and scattered willy-nilly. Even the outsized stove had been shoved to one side, the oven doors hanging open, unrecognizable remnants of food still visible on its surface. Ripped from the piping, the utility sink lay smashed on the floor. Next to it sat a dented can. The label read Contadina Tomato Paste.
For Mama Luigi’s Sunday Lasagna .
Over all, the odor of charred wood clogged the air like a barbeque gone terribly wrong. Chip’s glance collided with mine before we both looked away. “I can’t salvage a thing from here. Except maybe the food locker.”
The stainless steel walk-in refrigerator appeared intact. Trying not to breathe deeply of the acrid air, I peered inside. It was empty. Someone had disposed of whatever food it once held.
“The kitchen got hit the hardest. You can thank that refrigerator for saving your life,” Rossi said, obviously trying to strike a positive note. “And it sheltered the dining room from the worst of the damage.”
He walked through an opening that once held swinging doors separating the work space from the public areas. “Be careful,” he warned again as we trailed after him. “There’s glass everywhere.”
At least, with chunks of the roof blown away, we could see where we were stepping. And like nearly all buildings in Florida, this one had no basement for us to fall into.
Moving gingerly, we followed Rossi into the restaurant dining room. The lovely appetite-enhancing colors were filthy, replaced with soot, stains and gouges. Two steps in, I trod on a photograph of Venice—St. Mark’s Square at twilight—and wanted to weep. Chip and I had selected the photographs with such care. Except for one or two torn from their frames, I didn’t see any of the others. This time, I didn’t dare look Chip’s way.
“Hello, hello! Anybody home?”
At the sudden loud voice, we all stiffened and turned toward the kitchen. Francesco and Donny strode in, their shoes crunching on the fallen glass.
“Remember us?” Francesco said, his booming voice echoing off the walls. Donny as usual was silent. A smart maneuver for a major player in this disaster.
“How did you know we were here?” Chip asked.
“I called the house earlier looking for you,” Francesco said. “Ms. Baranski here told me you were coming over. I’ve been waiting to assess the situation, so I owe you one, Ms. Baranski.”
“AudreyAnn, please,” she said, sending a darting glance Donny’s way.
Francesco nodded, his eyes focused on her chest. With a visible effort, he tore his glance away and turned to Rossi. “Now that arson’s out of the picture, how about a key to that sorry excuse for a backdoor?”
“Of course. There’s one at the station with your name on it. As for arson, it can’t be proven one way or the other. That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means what I said it means.” Rossi’s jaw clenched.
Francesco grunted and looked around at the gutted room. “Hellava mess in here.” He pointed a finger at Chip. “We got some deciding to do.”
Chip coughed and shook his head. “My deciding’s done.” Clinging to AudreyAnn with one hand, he waved the other around the room. “My insurance won’t cover this. I’m wiped out.”
I sneaked a peek at Donny. If he suffered from remorse, he concealed the fact well. As rigid as a cigar store Indian, he didn’t twitch a muscle.
Still holding tight to AudreyAnn, Chip eased over to the bar. “Even the liquor stock’s gone. And I bought the best. What a waste.”
“Not entirely. Look at this!” On a shelf behind the bar near where the cash register once stood, I spied an intact
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