Murder and Marinara (14 page)

W
hen I got back to the cottage, Sofia was already waiting for me, her laptop and red folder in tow. We had barely sat down before she started.

“Tell me everything,” she said.

“There's a lot to tell, because I saw Anne McCrae, too.”

Sofie leaned across the table. “You can tell me about her later. It's Parisi's girlfriend I want to know about.”

“Trust me, she's no girl. She's fifty if she's a day.”

“He was cheating on his wife with an
older
woman?”

“Not older. His age. And she knew him before.”

Sofia narrowed her eyes. “So?”

“
So
they were together a long time, and he left her for Angie.”

“Don't make it right,” Sofia said, shaking her head. “He was a married man.” She looked at me. “You want to excuse her because you have something in common with her: Angie took your man, too.”

“Thanks for the reminder, Sofe. I'm now officially in cringe mode.”

She grinned. “Sorry. But we can't let our personal feelings get in the way of the investigation.”

“Right, except this isn't a real investigation. And while I'd love to get into the morality of the situation, there's more. Emily told me that Angie signed a prenup that would have left her with a pittance.” I pointed to the red folder. “So add Lady Anjelica to the list.” I indulged in a brief fantasy in which I detailed Angie's capture to Nina LaGuardia on national TV and couldn't help smiling. “After all,” I said, “who else would have access to his ‘special water' besides his wife?”

Sofia's expression was grim. “His mistress.”

“Maybe. I will say that Emily claimed she hadn't seen him in a while, but she
was
wearing a lovely silver necklace. In fact, is your computer on? Pull up the Tiffany site, okay?”

In two clicks, the page opened. “Got it,” she said.

“Geez, that was quick.”

She shrugged. “It's in my favorites.”

“Of course it is. Will you click on the necklaces for me?”

“I'm already on the page.” Sofia turned to look at me. “That wench was wearing a piece of Tiffany, wasn't she?” She pointed to the screen. “Dollars to doughnuts it's the same one Parisi bought last Monday. Hang on.” She clicked through several pages and stopped. “I bet it's on this page.”

“How the heck did you know it was one of these?” Clearly, Watson was out-Sherlocking Sherlock.

“It's pretty simple, really. Tiffany's been skewing to a younger audience. I knew a woman her age wouldn't be wearing a heart or an ice-cream cone.”

“You're right.” I pointed to a simple chain-link necklace. “That's the one.”

Sofia pulled the receipt from the folder and held it next to the computer screen. “Same item number. Same description. Unless it's a huge coincidence, she saw him the day before he died. And we just caught her in a big fat lie.”

“That doesn't make her a murderer,” I said.

“But it's suspicious, SIL, and you know it. And I'd like to know if she's getting anything in that will.”

“Actually, she told me he left her a small bequest. So that lets her out of a motive.”

The pity on my sister-in-law's face was evident. “And I thought you were a fricken mystery writer. You never heard of a crime of passion?”

“But you didn't see her, Sofe. She was really broken up about his death. I would swear her grief was real.”

“Her grief might be real. But she
lied
, Vic. She told you she hadn't seen him in a while. Yet she's wearing a shiny new necklace that he bought the day before he died. If she lied about that, she might be lying about other things. For all we know, she might be making a bundle from his death.”

I pulled out my notebook and jotted some questions. “I wish we could find out the provisions of that will.”

“Whether we do or don't, Haverford goes on the list.”

“I guess so,” I said reluctantly. “But she wasn't in the restaurant.”

“That wouldn't matter if she put something in his water.”

“A minute ago you said it was a crime of passion; now you're saying it's premeditated. Make up your mind.”

“Either way you look at it, Vic, she was a scorned woman. Her longtime lover leaves her for a younger woman. He takes up with her again, but doesn't leave his wife.” She shook her head. “It amazes me how stupid some women can be.”

“Are you talking about me or Emily?”

Sofia merely raised one brow in response, an answer I interpreted as “both.”

I scribbled more notes on my pad.

“In any case, we need to find out more about Emily Haverford, right?”

I dug into my jeans pocket and slid her card across the table. “Here's one place to start.”

Sofia studied the card. “All this says is ‘human resources.' That could mean anything. And there's no firm listed.”

“Maybe she's a consultant of some kind.”

“Wouldn't it say that?” She rubbed the card between her fingers. “This card's not real good paper stock.”

“So?”

“So I don't know yet.” She slipped the card into the red folder. “But I'm gonna do some digging; something's not right about this.” She looked up at me expectantly. “What else we got?”

“Well, our esteemed mayor confirmed that Parisi had nothing to eat or drink up at the boardwalk, but he did sip from his water bottle. He also told her he was trying to eat healthy, which was borne out by his choice of a salad with dressing on the side.”

“Didn't you tell me he didn't want the bread, either?”

“That's right—he made me take it back.”

Sofia shook her head. “Bread from the best Italian bakery in Brooklyn, and he doesn't want it.”

“No accounting for taste. And here's another tidbit: Anne said that Angie called Parisi three or four times that day.”

“Huh.” Sofie snorted. “She's probably checking up on him to make sure he is where he says he is.”

“Maybe. But I can't help feeling there's more to it than that.” I grinned at my sister-in-law. “You know, for a while there I was actually wondering if Anne might be Parisi's girlfriend.”

“Ha!” She slammed her palm down on the table. “That's a good one. Her skin's like leather. And that awful gray hair. She needs a good colorist.”

“Okay, point taken. But it's not like Emily Haverford is any prize, either. I did learn something else about Anne, though: Her Honor the Avaricious will apparently stop at nothing to bring the bucks to Oceanside Park.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, she made a point of asking me about the restaurant; she said she'd heard we'd lost customers.”

“So?”

“So this—as I'm on my way out the door, she informs me that if the Casa Lido goes under, she's got a buyer for the restaurant. A buyer who wants to turn a seventy-year-old family business into a Starbucks.”

Sofia let out a slow breath. “Your grandmother will have a cow. Make that two cows.”

“Which is why I won't be sharing that news with her. But I feel like it's important, for some reason.” I drummed my fingers on the tabletop while I thought it through. “Hey, Sofe,” I said slowly, “if you wanted to drive somebody out of business, what better way to do it than drop a dead body on the premises?”

Her mouth dropped open so far, I could count her pretty white teeth. “You can't really believe that she killed Parisi just to make the Casa Lido close down? That doesn't make any sense. She
wanted
the show to film here.”

“So she says. But I'm not taking anything at face value. Don't forget, she also has a problem with my family. She'd probably love to see us go down.”

“But, Vic, if she's the murderer, wouldn't it follow that she's the intruder, too? You said yourself that it had to be somebody who knew their way around.”

“She's been in the restaurant a number of times. But more important, our blueprints are on file in town hall, where she'd have ready access to them.”

“And she just happened to find the key to the pantry?” Sofie shook her head. “It's a reach, SIL, and you know it.”

“But she was with him up on the boardwalk. Close enough to put something in his water. She had opportunity and possibly motive.”

Sofia held up a fist and released her fingers one by one, starting with her thumb. “So did Tim. So did Angie. So did Mr. B, and so did Emily Haverford.”

I held up my pinkie finger. “And Annie makes five.”

Sofia sighed. “We're supposed to be
eliminating
names from the list, not adding them.”

“We're stuck,” I said. “Without the autopsy and toxicology results, we're flying blind. Assuming he was poisoned, unless we know how it was delivered, the field of suspects is wide-open.”

Sofia nodded. “If you know how, you know who.”

“Exactly. We've got to figure out what killed him. And how it got into his system.”
And please let it be that water bottle
, I thought,
because anything else spells doom for the Casa Lido.

S
ince Tuesday was Mr. Biaggio's regular delivery day, I got to the restaurant early in hopes of catching him. Much to my grandmother's chagrin (“Only desperate people give out coupons!”), we'd begun running some two-for-one luncheon specials, so the afternoons gave us some work to do. But things got quiet in the evenings; it was almost as if people were afraid to be in the restaurant after dark, and we couldn't survive on lunch trade alone. I stood in the doorway taking in the familiar sights—the dark-paneled woodwork and wide-planked floors, the old-fashioned tables and chairs, and the cheerful red-checked curtains, which now looked forlorn. It wasn't so long ago I'd wanted to run from this place, and now I couldn't bear the thought of losing it.

“You okay?”

Tim's voice came from behind me, almost as though I'd been expecting it. “Yeah, I guess. Just a little worried.”

He rested his hand on my shoulder. “Me too. But I think we'll get through it, Vic.” He motioned me in ahead of him.

“From your lips to God's ears. So, Chef Tim, what's cookin' for lunch?”

Tim cocked his head, and an errant curl brushed his forehead. My fingers itched to stroke it back into place; instead I jammed my hands in my jeans pockets. “Ah, you're gonna love today's menu,” he said. “My hand-cut
tagliatelle
with your grandmother's walnut pesto, roasted asparagus with prosciutto, and pork medallions in a balsamic glaze.”

“Sounds amazing.” It also sounded like an opportunity, if I could sweet-talk my ex into letting me help him. “Hey, Tim? Is Nando coming in today?”

“Nah. I can pretty much handle lunch alone. I can always call him in if it looks like we'll get busy.” He glanced outside at the empty sidewalks. “Which I don't think is gonna happen.”

“Listen, can I give you a hand prepping? I can trim the asparagus, grab some basil from the garden—whatever you need.”

A wicked grin spread across Tim's face. “Babe, what I need is not out in that garden.” He caught my hand, but I pulled it back.

“You're terrible with rules. You know that, don't you?” But I couldn't help smiling, because despite everything, he was still my Tim.
More fool you
, said a voice in my head. “You haven't answered my question. Can I help you today?”

“Yes,” he said, “If you're a good girl and listen to everything I tell you to do.”

“Ha. Fat chance, dude.”

“It was worth a shot,” he said with a grin. “Come, then, lass, and join me in the kitchen. And tie up that hair, or I'll make you wear a net.”

As I washed up, Tim brought the large wooden pasta board over to the island countertop. I grabbed the eggs and then measured out the flour and salt. I watched as Tim created a “flour mountain” and then hollowed out the top so that it looked like a mini volcano. Pasta-making in the restaurant is a time-honored process; Nonna must have taught Tim when he was still on her good side. He looked up at me, his eyes a pale gray in the bright sun of the kitchen. “Eggs, please. One at a time and no shells.”

I dropped the eggs into the flour volcano, pausing to admire their shiny golden yolks. “Is that a pretty sight, or what?”

Tim reached over and tapped the end of my nose. “It's a beautiful sight,” he said.

I tried to approximate a stern expression. “Don't you have some kneading to do?”

He laughed and started working the eggs into the flour, using only his index finger. It was a pleasure to watch his skilled hands gently scoop flour from the inner edges of the circle and work his way outward until he had a beautiful ball of dough. I reached out to pinch a small piece and got my hand slapped.

“C'mon. I just want a taste!”

“Get your hands outta my dough.” He wrapped the first ball and set it aside, then measured out another pile of flour and salt. Just as we were finishing the fourth batch, the back door banged open, and Mr. Biaggio appeared, carrying a wooden crate of vegetables.

“Is that my asparagus, Mr. B?” Tim called.

“
Sì
, Timoteo. Nice and fresh, like always.” He set the crate down on the counter and swiped the back of his hand across his red face. “Hello, Victoria.
Come stai?
”

“
Bene
, Mr. B. Thank you.” I stared at the pudgy grocer, trying to imagine him slipping something into Gio Parisi's salad. He pulled a bandanna from his back pocket and wiped his face again.

“Is it getting hot out there?” I glanced at Tim, who was carefully flouring the pasta board. Rolling and cutting the pasta would take forever, and at this rate I'd lose the chance to talk to Mr. Biaggio alone.

“Yes, like summer already.” He shrugged. “Well, the season starts soon. And then we will all be busy, right?”

“We hope.” I peered into the vegetable crate. “Is this the whole delivery?”

“That's all Tim ask for,” Mr. B said. “But I got the basil on the truck if you need it.”

Tim paused just as he was about to unwrap one of the balls of dough. “I'm not sure. I haven't decided how many batches of pesto I should make.” He furrowed his brow, counting in his head, looking so adorable that I was distracted from my purpose
.
As I struggled to get my head back in the game, I was struck with an idea.

“Nonna's already got basil going in the garden, Tim.” I smiled at our produce man. “No offense, Mr. B.”

I knew Tim's preference would be stuff that came directly from our garden, and I watched him hesitate. “They're young plants, though,” I said carefully, “so I'm not sure how much is there. One of us should probably go check.”

“I will.” Tim grabbed a plastic bag from the closet and looked at Mr. Biaggio. “Can you hang out for a minute?”

I sent a little prayer up to whatever saint was in charge of gardens in the hopes that Tim would be picking basil for a while. But once he was out the door, I got nervous, wondering how to begin. Mr. B began emptying the crate; I brought the asparagus over to the sink for washing. “These look good,” I said. “I could almost eat them raw.”

The produce man grinned. “Very sweet. They make a nice dish.”

Okay, I complimented his vegetables. What next? I couldn't plunge right in to the subject of his daughter, but my time with him was limited. How long would it take Tim to pick basil?

“So, business is good?” I ventured.

“Can't complain,” he said. “I'm trying to get some new accounts, though, because I got the tuition in September.”

Thank you for that opening, Mr. B.
“Where is your daughter going to school?”

“She finish at the community college this week, but in the fall, she go to Rutgers.”

“Oh, that's my alma mater.”

“Cosa?”
he asked.

“I mean, that's where I went to college.”

“Such a good school, no?” He smiled broadly, his pride all over his face. “I already buy the sweatshirt, the sticker for my car.” He pointed outside, still smiling. “And I put the magnet on the truck.”

My determination weakened in the face of Mr. B's paternal pride, but I had to press on. Tim might be back any moment. I smiled. “That's great. I know that she had, well, a difficult year.”

In slow motion, his smile faded and his face hardened. His hands were bunched into fists at his sides. I swallowed, my mouth dry as I prepared myself for the blast.

But instead of shouting, he dropped his voice to harsh rasp. “What those kids do to her is unforgivable. And that man—no, that
animale—
who show it for everybody to see: He get what he deserve,” he said, his last word no more than a whisper. Then he crossed himself. “May God forgive me.”

“I understand why you would feel that way. I mean, none of us were fans of the guy. Not that we would have wished him dead, of course,” I added.
Good going there, Vic. Way to win him over with your moral superiority.
I took a breath in preparation for my next question. “You were here that day, right?”

The look of contempt in his dark eyes was replaced by wariness. “
Sì
. You know I was here for the protest. I already tell that to the police.” He lifted the empty crate and held it against his barrel chest.

But he was also here much later delivering vegetables. Did the police know about that? Or about the Internet video and the
Jersey Side
connection? I made a mental note to ask Danny.

“Right,” I said, “but you came back later with a delivery, remember?” An awfully late delivery, I thought, and one timed exactly when Parisi was eating his lunch. Could Mr. B have followed him here that day?

“Victoria, why you asking me these questions?” Sweat broke out on his forehead, his large hands tightened on the wooden box, and I suddenly wondered whether Tim was within screaming distance. But I wasn't the only one fearful. Mr. Biaggio blinked nervously, swallowed once, and hugged the crate to himself as though he needed protection.

“Oh, no reason, Mr. B.” I forced a smile. “It's the mystery writer in me, I guess. Just wondering what happened to the guy.”

“It was a heart attack, no?” He nodded, his eyes still afraid.

“Probably,” I said. From the corner of my eye I could see Tim approaching with the plastic bag. While I was glad I had a means to get rid of him, I'd be in hot pasta water with my grandmother if he'd stripped too many of those plants. “Oh, look, here's Tim.” I pushed open the back door, glad to get out into the air.

Mr. B followed. While he and Tim talked over the next delivery, I mentally replayed my conversation. Mr. B had a clear motive, two if you counted the fact he was one of the protesters. He was protective of his daughter and obviously hated the dead producer. He was here that day and got spooked when I reminded him of it. He was afraid of something; of that, I had no doubt.

Tim went back to the kitchen and I turned to follow, but Mr. Biaggio laid a sweaty palm on my arm. “Victoria,” he whispered. “What happened to that Parisi, it was the hand of God, I think.”

Not God's hand, Mr. B, but quite possibly yours.