The Hammett Hex by Victoria Abbott Page B

table and recommended an Italian red as their featured wine. Grumpy didn’t put up a fight. The valpolicella sounded good to me.
    I had a bit of nostalgia for the signora’s dinners as each plate went sailing by to our fellow diners. My experience was that restaurants couldn’t really compare. But I had decided to enjoy it anyway despite the sourpuss sitting across from me. Every now and then I used my phone to capture the restaurant’s décor, the other diners and the hilarious waiters.
    I went for the
gamberi in Sambucca.
I didn’t recall thesignora ever cooking shrimp in Sambucca and cream, so I had no feelings of disloyalty. It did not disappoint. I oohed and aahed over it, camping it up a bit. “So creamy and with just a tiny hint of garlic.”
    Grumpy had the soup special and apparently not a word to say about it. It smelled wonderful from across the table.
    All that lack of conversation gave me time to think about our break-in, about our relocation, about the strange inconsistent behavior and the over-the-top generosity of the manager, including dinner in this out-of-the-way time-warp restaurant.
    For my second plate I opted for the
agnolotti
stuffed with butternut squash. I love all pastas, but especially stuffed ones, and Vera couldn’t abide squash. We all know that what Vera can’t abide doesn’t turn up at Van Alst House. Once again, I could enjoy it with a clear conscience. My dining companion moved on to the lasagna, a safe choice.
    The
agnolotti
were plump and stuffed with flavorful squash and a hint of what? Sage? Brown butter? Whatever it was, the dish was worthy, served as it was, alone with no distracting vegetables, but with large shavings of very good
parmegiano reggiano
.
    Apparently, the lasagna didn’t merit a single comment. In fact, Smiley didn’t eat more than a third of it, pushing the rest randomly around the plate.
    I, on the other hand, considered ordering a second plate of
agnolotti
for dessert. I didn’t think the waiter would cope with that break with tradition, however, so I stuck with the dessert menu. Like the dinner list, there were no surprises. I went with
tartuffo
. Again, something the signora didn’t serve.
    As our large waiter bowed his way toward the kitchen with our orders, Grumpy stared at the table and drummed his fingers on it. I turned my attention to the other couples on the other side of the restaurant. One couple was head tohead, foreheads touching as they shared a laugh, seemingly oblivious to the rest of us. I suppose I must have leaned sideways a bit to get a better look at them, maybe soak up a bit of that joyful spirit. As I did, my red napkin slipped to the floor. I bent over to get it, and for some unknown reason I lifted my head a bit too fast and banged it on the underside of the table. I gave the table a dirty look as if that made any sense. Of course, the way the evening was going, I could expect a bit more sympathy from that wooden table than from my dinner companion. I rubbed my head and did a double take. The waiter had hurried back, bowing, as I sat up straight in my seat. “Signorina! So sorry! Are you all right? More wine. Yes!” He snapped his fingers and a much smaller waiter came running with an emergency refill. He was obviously of the same school as the signora. I found myself shaking my head and saying, “No, thank you.” It didn’t work, of course.
    â€œI’m fine really,” I said, caving in to the extra wine. Why fight it?
    Grumpy managed to ask, “Are you okay?”
    I had just clearly said I was fine, but I let that go and nodded.
    The waiter filled my glass and for good measure Mr. Grumpy’s glass too.
    Both waiters eased away from the table with a flurry of well-wishing, the older one giving the occasional bow. I raised my glass and smiled at him.
Thank you
, I mouthed.
    â€œThere’s something I need to tell you,” Mr. Grumpy said.
    Uh-oh.