Dying for a Taste Read Online Free PDF

weird.”
    Having seen the crowd trying to get a look into the restaurant that afternoon, I knew better. “Don’t worry,” I said. “It’ll be packed.”
    Once reheated in the microwave, the omelette was again hot, but that was the best that could be said for it. I have a thing about wasting food, though, so I ate it anyway and then set the plate on the floor for Buster to lick clean.
    After washing up and leaving the dishes to dry in the drainer, I poured myself a hefty Jim Beam on the rocks, put on a CD of Tosca —the 1953 Callas/di Stefano recording—and plopped down on the sofa.
    My dad’s a big opera fan, as was his dad before him. In fact, my father and Letta were both named after famous opera characters: Mario from Tosca and Violetta from La Traviata . One of my earliest memories is of my dad watering the garden on Saturday mornings, listening to the Met broadcast on the radio through the open windows as he adjusted the spray with his fingers, singing along with Puccini and Verdi. I ended upgetting the bug too, so I guess it runs in the family. Must be an Italian thing.
    I stared out the window and listened to Tito Gobbi’s chilling baritone: “ Va’ Tosca, nel tuo cuor s’annida Scarpia !” The afternoon wind had brought with it a storm front from the north, and through the water that was now streaming down the pane, I could see silhouettes of branches bending back and forth as they got caught by gusts.
    With a shiver, I pulled the green-and-white afghan Nonna had knitted from the back of the couch and over my legs. My apartment is pretty small—just a one bedroom with a kitchen/dining area, a small living room, and a tiny bathroom—and wouldn’t have been prohibitively expensive to heat. But in an attempt to save money, I only turn on the furnace when it’s downright frigid. The hot flashes help.
    Buster jumped up and joined me on the sofa. Snuggled up with him in my blanket, I reflected on the day’s events. It was still hard to believe that Aunt Letta was gone. And who could possibly have wanted her dead—so much so that they would kill her in such a brutal and vicious fashion? I shivered again and got up to pull the curtains shut. Then, walking over to the cabinet between the fridge and kitchen table, I pulled out the bottle and poured myself another bourbon. Maybe the liquor would help me sleep.

Chapter Four
    Of course I’d known it was coming, but I was still taken aback by the headline splashed across next morning’s newspaper: “Restaurateur Found Stabbed to Death in Gauguin Kitchen.” Folding the paper to obscure the headline, I hurried back up the stairway and scurried inside my apartment; I so did not feel like discussing the murder with anyone in the complex.
    The story said nothing I didn’t already know and thankfully did not name Javier—or anyone—as a suspect. But its publication resulted in a barrage of calls all morning to my landline as well as my cell. I’d finally turned off both ringers so that I could have some peace while I ate a banana and sipped my coffee, skimming over the rest of the paper and trying to keep at bay the image in my mind of my aunt lying dead in a pool of blood.
    Buster sat once again at my feet, his hopeful tail percussive on the vinyl floor. Clearly, Letta had not been strict about any no-begging-at-the-table rule. But I was thankful for his company.
    Draining the last of my coffee, I set the cup down on the kitchen table with a smack . “Okay,” I said and shoved back my chair. “No more putting it off; time to get a move on.”
    Solari’s is closed on Tuesdays, but I had a busy day ahead, nevertheless, starting with a nine o’clock appointment at the funeral home. Buster followed me around the apartment, still wagging his tail, while I rinsed my cup, grabbed my jacket and purse, and then, remembering it was raining, searched for an umbrella. When he saw me pick up his leash, Buster ran to the front door and sat patiently while I hooked it