Basil Instinct by Shelley Costa

pale-blue summer linen sheath, the Belfiere B was visible on her right wrist. On her it looked like very cool jewelry.
    Fina Parisi asked to see Nonna’s tattoo—no longer hidden by a Darth Vader–style glove—and the two of them disappeared, chatting softly, into the office, where Nonna closed the door. To keep out all of us non-Belfiere troglodytes, apparently, the Oompa Loompas of Miracolo . . .
    By the time Daughter of Strega had left, pleased, Maria Pia went home to change, and Georgia Payne showed up with a numb cheek and a watchful manner. But still pleasant. Landon, Inoticed, had nothing more to report on either the Belfiere whistle-blower named Anna T. or Psi Chi Kappa itself. He left his assistant, Georgia, totally alone to figure out how she could, well, assist. He seemed not to notice when the beloved, Jonathan, showed up in new duds—still the Miracolo black-and-white look, but with something modest in the way of bling around his neck—although I overheard Landon murmur something about how jewelry shouldn’t be allowed in the workplace. He had nothing more to say either about Corabeth Potts or the lasting contributions of Bob Fosse to Broadway theater.
    When I touched his forehead to see if he was running a fever, he even flinched.

5
    When asked later—by the authorities—about Thursday night, I was able to say honestly that it was normal. Even better than normal. The gender-mysterious Mrs. Crawford, a vision in a Pepto-Bismol-pink Vera Wang rip-off and a triple strand of black pearls, stepped up her jazz repertoire with witty asides. Choo Choo seemed unabashed by anything except his crush on Vera Tyndall, who nearly outdid Paulette in terms of sleek service. Before the regulars arrived to bring us all down with Grief Week, Corabeth harmonized with Dana Cahill on the old boogie-woogie number “Frankie and Johnny.” Dana was even on key. Which tells you something about what a fine, rare evening June 19 was.
    And the customers loved everything—the food,the jazz, the rosato Jonathan recommended with the ravioli special, the opera memorabilia on the beautiful old brick walls of my Miracolo—everything. Two came back to the kitchen to compliment me (okay, so one of them was Leo, but his eyes glistened with love for the calamari appetizer, so, yes, I counted him as a customer). Georgia Payne and I exchanged a knowing look. In that moment I decided she was rock solid and we were lucky to have her.
    The customers even ate it up when the regulars tuned up and the clarinet played the opening breathless notes to the Titanic tearjerker, “My Heart Will Go On.” Pretty soon the customers were swaying back and forth, their arms across each other’s shoulders, bellowing, “Near, far, whereEEHHHHver you are, I know that my heart will go on . . .” The musicians seemed particularly choked up, and Giancarlo wiped off his Clark Kent eyeglasses with a bar rag. Karaoke night, Grief Week, something for everybody.
    The candles burned brighter.
    Glasses clinked, but not too loudly.
    There was nothing but laughter.
    The perfect summer night.
    *   *   *
    The next morning, after a great night’s sleep, I had a sweet, solitary breakfast in my blue butterfly chair out on my porch the size of a welcome mat. There I nibbled a chocolate croissant I had the foresight to pick up from Au Bon Pain the day before, and a mug of French-pressed espresso-roast coffee. While I sipped and chewed, I watched the sky, where clouds seemed to bunch and collide the way they do before it rains.
    At that moment I could honestly say I didn’t care so much as an anchovy about whether Joe Beck and Kayla Angelotta went to a fancy lawyers’ dinner dance for fancy lawyers. At that moment—despite whatever funk my poor Landon was in—I knew I’d figure out what to do about the likes of Belfiere. As I picked every buttery flake of chocolate goodness off my chest, I somehow just knew that a bunch of old cooking drama queens didn’t scare