The Spia Family Presses On - By Mary Leo Page 0,54

she and Babe were growing up, their immigrant parents only spoke Italian to their children. Both she and Babe were fluent in the language. Me? I was third generation, and knew a few sentences, a mixture of good swear words and gestures, and could, if pressed, pick out a few words in a conversation.

From what I could make out, which wasn’t much, they were either talking about blow fish in the mountains, or Jordan almonds at a wedding. I was going with the Jordan almonds. They were a safer bet under the circumstances.

The top of the counter held several glass displays of cookies and biscotti. A large slate board hanging on the wall behind the counter announced today’s special: Two dozen cookies for the price of one.

Apparently, Aunt Hetty was trying to get rid of all the excess cookies from Dickey’s party. Usually, the relatives scooped up the excess food after one of these events, but when my mom yelled cop, leftovers was not something that took high priority, even for Zia Yolanda.

The bright yellow walls of the bakery gave the place a happy, light ambiance, and white floor tile with little yellow squares at the corners reflected that happy tone. A padded, red-checkered bench ran across the far wall, with square tables and chairs in front of it. Artwork hung on the walls depicting Italian baked goods and older Italian women pulling bread or trays of cookies out of rustic ovens.

Jade sat at one of only four small round tables in front of the floor to ceiling windows. Aunt Babe was nowhere in sight, but it didn’t matter because Nick Zeleski seemed to be a pretty good replacement. I didn’t know if I was happy to see him, or scared to death.

“Mia,” he yelled out. “Come join us.” And he pulled up a white chair from the empty table next to them.

I needed those cookies, bad.

Before I could get up to the counter to place my order, Aunt Hetty already had a dozen Amaretto cookies sitting on a plate waiting for me. “You want tea or coffee with these?” she asked, stone faced.

“A shot of brandy would be perfect, but short of that, Irish Breakfast tea, please,” I told her.

“I’ll bring it over.”

I nodded, took my plate of cookies, inhaled three of them before I arrived at the table, smiled at both Jade and Nick and sat across from Jade, right next to Nick.

Then I ate another cookie, this time I totally could taste the sweet Amaretto and a satisfied sensation momentarily washed over me.

Then Nick spoke. “Well, this is a nice coincidence.”

Satisfaction was replaced with apprehension.

I nodded, too busy eating cookies to actually speak.

“Isn’t this great?” Jade announced. “Nick’s been looking for Dickey, too. I told him about our phone call last night, and about your mom and me just missing him this morning. Nick thinks Dickey went off to town or something. We’re waiting for him to get back. In the meantime, I’ve been telling Nick all about my honey-bear.” She turned to Nick. “I didn’t ask how you know Dickey.” She leaned in closer. “Were you an inmate with him in prison? ‘Cause he told me he made a lot of friends while he was in there.” She turned to me. “He was a cook, ya know? For the inmates. Wrote a cookbook with all his recipes. I’m going to help him get it published. My brother-in-law is a literary agent in New York.” She turned back to Nick. “Were you his cellmate or something?”

I bit into another cookie and gazed over at Nick, waiting for his answer.

“Not exactly,” he mumbled.

“Oh, now I get it. She leaned in closer and whispered. I leaned in closer and listened. “You’re a friend from his Mafia days, aren’t you?”

I sat back, smirked and watched Nick’s face get all serious. “I’m with the Sheriff’s Department,” he told her. “I’d simply like to talk to Dickey.” He turned to me. “But that seems to be a bit of a problem.”

I swallowed, not wanting to say anything that might incriminate me later when and if the body ever did turn up. “I need more cookies. Can I get either of you anything?”

I stood.

Jade seemed to be in shock. She stopped talking. Nick was all smiles. “Yes, I’ll take an éclair, they look great.”

When I arrived at the counter with my empty plate, Aunt Babe was standing down at the other end, alone. I walked over to her. “Honey, you need to lose