Death Al Dente by Leslie Budewitz

a double latte. Returned with two, plus a
pain au chocolat
for me and a plain croissant for Fresca. She sat at the counter, recipe binder open and a note pad in front of her. She cooks on Monday and Tuesday, and her first step is always making a list of ingredients. But the pad was blank, and she stared into space. I gave her breakfast and a printout showing our inventory of her sauces and pastas, and pointed out where we were low.
    â€œExactly what I thought, without your fancy programs and ana—what do you call it?”
    â€œAnalytics.” Pretty basic, actually, but who could blame her for being in a sour mood? I didn’t think Kim’s evidence amounted to much, but Fresca didn’t know Chiara and I had eavesdropped on a private conversation, and she hadn’t revealed the particulars, so I kept my lips zipped.
    But when I told her about the appointments with the lawyers, she was firm. “No.”
    â€œMom, don’t you think you should be prepared?”
    Clearly, she did not.
    I tried again. “Is there somebody you’d rather call? Someone in Pondera?” Pronounced “Pon-duh-ray” by locals. “Or Missoula—that guy from Chiara’s class is a big-shot lawyer down there.”
    â€œI don’t need a lawyer. You may be manager of the Merc, but I am still your mother, and it is my life, and I said no.”
    Why so stunningly vehement? Simple denial? Was she hiding something? Protecting someone?
    None of that made any sense.
    â€œGotcha, loud and clear.” I couldn’t say more without admitting we’d spied on her. Still, we had time. If Kim turned up the heat, we could call the lawyers then.
    When I told my boss at SavClub why I was leaving, she’d given me her blessing, along with a warning about going into business with family. “All your buttons will get pushed, regularly. You’ll need to set firm boundaries.”
    That goes both ways. But when someone you love won’t do what you’re certain is right—well, sometimes you have to push back.
    * * *
    T racy arrived, dressed appropriately today in a long navy skirt and a cream loose-weave sweater that suited her stocky build. First task: restocking shelves. We had gaps from goods sold and gaps from goods damaged. We were low on several kinds of jam, gnocchi, and pumpkin ravioli. The fresh mozzarella was gone and, of course, the olive tapenade.
    Goody, goody.
    Fresca hadn’t gotten very far on her list of supplies. My heart ached, seeing her dejection. But if an angel with a platinum American Express card came hunting locally sourced groceries for the clan’s family reunion, I was not going to let her walk out thinking we couldn’t deliver the goods.
    â€œI’m off to the bank,” I called, waving the zippered vinyl deposit bag. “Don’t burn the place down while I’m gone.” After the last few days, a little humor seemed in order. Alas, no one else thought so.
    I strolled up Front Street past Le Panier and Chez Max. Past the Playhouse, which reminded me of the paver. At the corner, I waved at Kathy, out sweeping the Dragonfly’s sidewalk, and headed up Hill Street.
    So great to be part of this little town, despite its unimaginative street names. At SavClub—like any corporate conglomerate—I rarely got to see my plans come to life. You line them out and hand them off to other people, and go on to the next project, hoping someone tells you what worked and what didn’t. Here, you’re idea person and trash picker—I scooped up a stray plastic water bottle—rolled into one. And as the Festa demonstrated, the risks might be higher, but so were the rewards.
    Jewel Bay Bank and Trust had opened in 1910, the same year as Murphy’s Mercantile. It had long outgrown the original sandstone structure, but managed to keep functioning with a tasteful addition and a branch up on the highway.
    While the teller checked my