Beethoven, Bach, Schubert, with a sprinkling of Scott Joplin thrown in.
That night, Sabrina was extremely grateful for her aunt’s presence at dinner. Irene kept the conversational ball rolling, something Sabrina knew she would not have been able to do if Irene hadn’t been there.
Toward the end of the meal, Sabrina said as casually as she could, “Mom, tomorrow I have to go to Columbus to research a story.”
Isabel stared at her. “So soon? Can’t someone else do it?”
“No, I’m afraid not. This man…he’s a whistle blower…” Oh, God, she hated lying. “And he only agreed to talk to me. It’s really important or I wouldn’t go. But you’ll be okay. Aunt Irene and Florence are both here. And I’ll only be gone one day.”
Her mother looked as if she wanted to protest some more, but Irene forestalled her by saying, “It’ll be good for Sabrina to get away, Isabel. And it’ll give us a chance to go through Ben’s clothes. You did say you wanted me to help you do that before I leave.”
Isabel nodded reluctantly.
Sabrina smiled at her aunt, who reached over and patted her hand.
The following morning, Sabrina was on her way by eight. By eleven, she was pulling her Expedition into the parking lot of the motel. Luckily they had a room ready for her. After unpacking her few things, Sabrina sat on the side of the bed and reached for the phone. Her father’s contact information for Gregg Antonelli was at his place of business—an Italian restaurant that he owned. Taking a deep breath, Sabrina punched in the numbers.
Gregg Antonelli told himself not to lose his temper, but there were times when Joe Ruggerio, his chef, tried Gregg’s patience to the point where he’d like nothing better than to tell Joe to take a hike. Joe was the best chef Gregg had ever had, yet sometimes the problems he created simply didn’t seem worth the benefits. Today was one of those days.
Gregg counted to ten. “Look, Joe, this has got to stop. Billy’s a hard worker. I don’t want to lose him.”
The expression on Joe’s florid face could only be described as a smirk.
Gregg’s jaw hardened. “I mean it. I want you to give me your word you’ll quit riding him.”
“Hey, if he can’t take the heat, he should get out of the kitchen!” Enamored of his own joke, Joe grinned and winked at Pedro, their dishwasher and Joe’s lackey.
Gregg was about to say something he’d probably regret when Lisa, the head of the wait staff, entered the kitchen.
“Gregg, phone call for you,” she said.
Saved by the bell, he thought, for if he’d given vent to his feelings, he wouldn’t have had to fire Joe. The temperamental chef would have walked out. That was the crux of the problem. Great chefs were difficult to find, especially when you couldn’t afford to pay top dollar, and Joe knew it.
Suppressing a tired sigh, Gregg headed for his minuscule office and punched the blinking line. “Gregg Antonelli.”
“Um, yes. Mr. Antonelli?”
Gregg didn’t recognize the female voice. “Yes,” he said patiently. “This is Gregg Antonelli. How can I help you, ma’am?”
“Mr. Antonelli, my name is Sabrina March.”
Gregg waited. The name meant nothing to him.
“I’m a, um, relative of Ben Arthur, who gave me your name. I know you don’t know me, but it’s very important that I talk to you about some urgent business. I’m only here in town for one day and was hoping we could meet this afternoon or evening.”
Gregg frowned. He hadn’t been aware that his sister’s husband had any relatives. In fact, if he remembered correctly, Ben had specifically said he had no close family to speak of. So who the hell was this woman and what could she possibly want?
“If Ben gave you my name and this number, then you know I own a restaurant. I’ll be tied up until at least ten-thirty tonight. But if you don’t mind coming here, say, between eight-thirty and nine, I could meet with you then. That’s when business begins to slow down, and if you like, we could have a late dinner together while we talk.”
“Thank you. That sounds fine. Could you give me directions from the Comfort Inn?”
After they’d hung up, Gregg sat at his desk for a long moment. This woman must be on the up-and-up. How else would she know about him and his relationship to Glynnis? But what possible business could she have? Gregg wished he could talk to Ben before meeting with her, but Ben was away on one of his numerous trips and wasn’t due back for another three days. Gregg supposed he could try to raise Ben on his cell phone. Quickly he looked up the number and called it, but all it yielded was Ben’s voice mail.
“Hey, Ben, this is Gregg. If you get this message before eight tonight, give me a call. It’s important.”
Gregg wondered if he should call Glynnis next and see if she had any clue as to who this woman could be, but for some reason, he hesitated to do so. For one thing, his sister was a worrier. For another, his niece was suffering with an ear infection and Glynnis hadn’t been getting a whole lot of sleep the past few days. For all he knew, she was napping along with the kids.
It was always tough on her when Ben was traveling, which was most of the time. Gregg’s frown deepened. He had not been happy when Glynnis married Ben. Even if the man hadn’t been nearly twenty years older than his sister, his frequent absences and his tendency to want to keep Glynnis to himself would have been enough to turn Gregg off. He’d always believed his sister could have done much better, but ever since she’d married Ben she’d seemed happy, so Gregg had kept his opinions to himself. He remembered only too well what had happened the last time he’d meddled in her love life.
Throughout the day, Gregg found himself thinking of the upcoming meeting whenever there was any kind of break in the action. Not that there were many. Antonelli’s had always been popular with the lunch crowd, but for the past year—ever since a big computer software company had relocated its offices in the office complex a half mile down the road—they’d had a packed house every weekday.
When it finally slowed around two in the afternoon, the kitchen staff had all they could do to prepare for the evening meal, which started as early as five. In the afternoons, Gregg usually helped out in the kitchen because it wasn’t only good chefs that were hard to come by. It was hard to find good help, period.
Today he worked on the salad line, cutting carrots and onions, which Maggie, the sous-chef, added to the torn pieces of romaine lettuce she’d arranged on the salad plates. They usually tried to plate at least fifty salads for the evening. Anything left over could be used at lunch the next day. A couple of sliced tomatoes would be added to the salads just before serving, because they did best if they weren’t cut beforehand. There was nothing Gregg hated more than cold, mushy tomatoes on a salad.
In fact, he wouldn’t tolerate that kind of sloppiness in his restaurant. He took pride in the fact that at Antonelli’s they used the best and freshest possible ingredients available and that their salads had been given a high rating from the food editor of the local newspaper.
People who knew nothing about the restaurant business thought it was glamorous. Gregg himself had thought the same thing before
