Murder and Marinara (16 page)

Just then we came to a stop, our chair swinging slightly over the platform. I let out a long breath, my heart still pounding, whether from the ride or my little interrogation, I didn't know. I released my hands from the bar and flexed my fingers, then wiped my damp palms on the sides of my skirt. Cal unfastened the bar and reached for my hand, saw me hesitate and frowned.

“You don't wanna take my hand?”

“It's not that.” I held up my hands. “Sweaty palms.”

He laughed and caught my hand. “A little sweat don't bother me. Long as you don't think you're holding hands with a murderer.”

“Hilarious.” I stepped down from the ride with rubbery legs, glad to be on terra firma. I looked back up at the huge wheel and shivered. “I can't believe I let you talk me into that.”

“And thus far my pants are still clean and upon my person.” He shot me a wicked grin, and I narrowed my eyes at him.

“And likely to remain that way.” I tugged his hand. “C'mon, you're not leaving here without a classic frozen custard.”

As we walked and ate our ice creams, I thought about our conversation up on the Ferris wheel. Had Cal really not seen anything at all on the day of the murder? He struck me as someone who missed very little. Maybe he would remember something later, even a small detail that might be important.

“By the way,” I said as we headed back to the restaurant, “my sister-in-law will be interested to hear that you call her ‘Miss Firecracker.' It's kind of fitting, though. Coincidentally, she has a nickname for you: ‘Mr. Down on the Bayou.'”

“Hell, girl, what does she think? That I'm out there mixin' moonshine and wrasslin' gat-uhs?”

“Keep layin' on the accent like sugar syrup and I'll think the same thing.”

“Whatsamatta?” Cal's voice shifted quickly from the bayou to the Meadowlands. “Don't I tawk like what yuh used to?”

“Wow,” I said, turning to look at him. “It's like all the South just dropped out of your voice there for a minute.” Impressive, but for some reason, also disconcerting.

“Well, Victoria, I got you here safe and sound.” We stood in front of the Casa Lido, Cal still holding my hand. “Thank you for a lovely evening. Hope we can do it again sometime.” After the briefest brush of his lips against my cheek, he said good night. As I watched his slim-hipped figure recede into the darkness, I was left with a faint sense of unease. He'd been in Jersey for almost eight years, yet acted as though this was his first trip to the boardwalk. He also was a guy with the ability to sound like somebody else. Finally, he had specifically mentioned Parisi's salad in the course of our conversation on the Ferris wheel.

Was it merely a joke? A coincidence? Or an unconscious slip of the tongue?

I
sabella gripped the side of the deck, taking in lungfuls
[lungs full?]
of the salt air, trying to focus her eyes on the distant horizon.
The illness can't last long,
she thought as she—

I jumped at the buzzing sound coming from the vicinity of my elbow. “Why didn't I leave this thing off?” Still bleary-eyed the morning after my date with Cal, I turned my phone to read the name I knew I would see there: Sofia.

“You rang, SIL? This is early even for you.” I stared at the computer screen, willing more words to magically appear in the paragraph.

“Geez, good morning to you, too.”

“I was writing. ‘Was' being the operative word.”

But my snark had little effect on my sister-in-law. “Good,” she said. “That means you're at your computer. Minimize your document, please.”

I waited a beat, but left my page up. “Okay, what?”

“I'm not saying another word till you close that document.”

Letting out a loud sigh, I clicked the minus sign across the top of the doc. “What are you, on video phone or something?”

“I just know my Victoria. Listen, get on the Entertainment Channel Web site. There's a video on the home page you should probably see. Call me back when you're finished.”

The Entertainment Channel Web site, with its black-and-gold EC! logo, was an amalgam of gossip and “infotainment.” Its Web page was a pastiche of lurid colors and sound effects, and the show's theme song blared through my computer's speakers as the page opened. Wincing, I turned the volume down; it was way too early for this. I scanned the tabs across the top and clicked on the featured video, a screen shot of Angelina Jolie. But once I hit the play button, I blinked and peered closer at the screen. The tall woman in the dark hair was not Angelina, but none other than her doppelgänger, Anjelica, aka Angie Martini. What the hell?

It looked like a news conference, with Angie at a podium flanked by two men. She was saying something into the mike I couldn't quite catch, and I raised the volume.

“...and was the recipient of several threatening letters before his death.” Threatening letters? Angie continued, clearly reading from a statement. “More than a week has passed, yet I know nothing more today than I did one week ago.” She stopped to dab at her eyes, and I groaned aloud. “And the local police in Oceanside Park have provided me with absolutely no information.”

A muffled question came from the audience, and Angie shook her glossy hair. “They have not released any autopsy results. At this point, I know nothing about what caused my husband's death.”

Another inaudible question and another shake of Angie's head. “No, he had no food allergies.” She frowned, glanced at one of the men, who shook his head. “I'm sorry. We really can't comment further on that.”

At that, one of the men stepped in front of the mike. “Mrs. Parisi has made her statement. There will be no more questions, but I will make one more comment for the record: If Mrs. Parisi is not provided a satisfactory answer from local law enforcement regarding her husband's death, we will be launching our own investigation and possible lawsuit. Thank you.”

And the screen went blacker than my thoughts.

•   •   •

Thus far I had tried to keep my brother out of my “investigation,” but now the situation was desperate. The Black Widow had gone public with some new information and just stopped short of naming the restaurant in a suit. Tomorrow my time was up on the deal with Nina; if I didn't have something for her, the Channel Ten van might well end up outside the Casa Lido doors. We would never survive another media onslaught, let alone a wrongful-death suit. Danny was my only hope in getting some answers before the worst happened.

I found him in the one place I knew he'd be on his off-hours: on his boat in the marina.

“Hey, bro.” I stepped gingerly onto the boat's deck; despite being born and bred near the water, I was not a fan of boating, mostly because I tended to seasickness and dark fantasies involving sharks. Danny reached out a hand and led me to a seat. “I figured this would be the best place for us to talk,” I said.

Danny glanced over to the slip at his left. “For now,” he said. “Nobody's here yet.”

He looked at me over the top of his black wraparound sunglasses. “You wanna know about the autopsy, right?”

“Yes. And you've been out here, so you probably haven't seen the latest news. The Widow Angie just announced publicly that her husband was receiving threatening letters in the weeks before he died. Her lawyer or some PI with her implied there'd be a lawsuit.” I shook my head. “It's looking worse and worse for us, Danny.”

“We know about the letters,” he said, “but I can't say any more about that.” He looked around once more and lowered his voice. “The cause of death was heart failure, but the medical examiner has sent all the fluids out for testing. Those results could take weeks.”

“We don't have weeks.” And I had only twenty-four hours before Nina descended. “Memorial Day is right around the corner,” I told him. “And I knew all this already. Isn't there anything else you can tell me?”

Danny looked out over the water, then back at me. “I'm not on the investigation, Vic, and even if I were, you know I shouldn't be telling you anything.”

“That's not an answer. I know your brothers in blue are keeping you posted on this case.” I gripped his arm. “Please, Danny. I have to figure out what happened to this guy.”

“And what are you gonna do with that information? Besides put yourself in harm's way?”

I bit my lip. “I don't exactly know. Maybe force a confession? Get somebody to incriminate himself? Or herself?”

Danny blew out a loud breath. “That only happens in your books, sis. You've gotta be careful here.”

“I won't do anything stupid. I promise.”

He cracked a smile for the first time. “Because getting yourself locked in the pantry wasn't stupid.”

“Gimme a break here, will ya? Okay. What if I ask you a couple of questions and you just answer them?”

He sighed. “Hell, I know I won't get any fishing in otherwise.”

I pulled out my notebook and a pen. “Was he on any meds? Maybe something he accidentally overdosed on?” The hope in my voice was pathetic.

“He was on beta blockers for his heart. But it wasn't an overdose.”

“He's on heart meds, yet he dies of heart failure.” I scribbled the medication on my pad. “So Parisi must have been given something that caused his fatal heart attack, correct?”

My brother nodded, tight-lipped.

“Okay, the question is, how was it delivered?”

He raised one thick brow over his sunglasses, but remained silent.

“You are maddening—you know that? All right, we know everything he ate
from
went through the dishwasher. What about the San Pellegrino bottle? It tested negative, right?”

“What do you think?”

“I figured as much. Listen, I found out he was drinking from a water bottle up on the boardwalk, one he brought from home. Was that bottle tested, too?”

“Yes,” he said quietly, “and it was clean.”

My heart sank like a penny dropped into the bay. “That means he most likely ingested whatever killed him at lunch. In the restaurant.”

“Yeah,” he said, and that one syllable was laden with meaning.

“But the kitchen trash turned up nothing?”

“Right.”

“But we don't know what might have been in the garbage that was already outside.”

A muscle in his jaw tightened. “Don't remind me. The CP wants my chief's ass on a platter for that one.”

I thought of the portly Chief O'Brien and grimaced. “Now there's an image I won't be able to shake.” I jotted a few more notes and then looked up at my brother. “Wait. Does ‘CP' stand for county prosecutor?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Crap. There must be
something
else you can tell me about that autopsy.” I waited, hearing only the slap of the water against the side of the boat. “C'mon, Danny!” I wailed.

He suddenly grinned. “You sound just like you did when you were ten. Next thing I know, you'll be threatening to tell Mom.”

“Funny.” I nodded toward the water. “Bet those fish are starting to bite. Too bad you're not out there.”

“Okay,” he said, holding up his palms. He shot a quick glance across the marina and lowered his voice again. “Listen, they won't know for sure for weeks, but the ME's hunch is that a natural substance was used to kill him.”

“A natural substance? Like . . . from a plant?” My stomach thumped with a terrible foreboding. He nodded again, and a kaleidoscope of impressions swirled around my brain. The herbs in the pantry. Iris's words about poisonous plants. Cal's joke about the salad. And fresh bunches of greens laid out in the kitchen delivered by Mr. B. Was Parisi's lunch a crazy salad of arugula laced with poisonous leaves?

“This is not good,” I whispered.

“No,” Danny said. “It isn't.”

“But there's more. If we go under, do you know that the mayor already has a buyer lined up for the restaurant? A buyer who wants to turn it into a Starbucks.”

Danny swore under his breath. “That's just great. That would kill Mom and Pop.” He shook his head. “Nonna would just kill the buyer.”

“Please don't joke like that, okay?” I tucked my pad and pen back into my purse and grabbed my keys. “Danny, thanks for talking to me. I know it's a risk, and this will be the last time. I promise.”

But as I turned to go, Danny put his hand on my shoulder. “Hey, Vic. Is Sofia involved in this little investigation of yours?”

“What do you think? She's like a cute little dog with a bone.”

One side of his mouth lifted, and I had to smile back. “She's smart, Dan. And she's a tough cookie.”

“Don't I know it,” he said grimly.

“Why are you so against her applying for the police academy? Are you worried about her safety?”

“Of course, but it's not just that. I'm just not sure about both of us on the job. I've seen what it can do to marriages.”

I put my hand on his arm. “Would you say that you have a marriage right now?”

“No, I wouldn't. I want her back home with me, damn it.” There was sadness in his tone.

“I know that's what she wants, too. Look, I know how you feel about this, but why don't you consider counseling?”

He grinned. “No shrink would last an hour with us. Two hotheaded Italians in therapy?”

“You forgot ‘hardheaded.' Still, I wish you'd consider it. It's better than this limbo you're in right now.”

“And what about you, sis? How's it been, having to work with Tim?”

“In some ways, really difficult.” I thought back to our near kiss in the kitchen. “In some ways, just like old times. Having Angie Martini in the picture sure threw me for a loop, though.” I searched my brother's face. “Danny, you don't think Tim . . .”

He shook his head and spoke firmly. “Absolutely not. I've known the guy twenty years. He's not capable of it.”

But you could be wrong about him, Dan. We both could
. “Mr. Biaggio was also there. Do the cops know about that Internet video clip from
The Jersey Side
?”

“Yeah.” He crossed his arms, and his face hardened. “I'd like to bang those kids' heads together.”

“Me too. Imagine how Mr. B feels. He's got at least one motive, maybe two. And in his line of work, he would have to know plants, right?”

“I don't know, Vic.” Danny pulled a cooler from a hatch along the side of the boat, and any minute I'd lose him to today's catch. “I just don't like him for this; I'm not sure why.”

“Okay. Then who, Dan? Who
do
you like for this?”

He shrugged. “Well, we usually look at the spouse. In this case, there's also the mistress.”

“Oh, you know about her.” But for some reason, I hesitated about telling my brother I'd spoken to Emily Haverford.

“Trouble is,” Danny continued, “they weren't on the scene.”

“How do we know that for sure? It's not outside the realm that one of them could have slipped into the kitchen or the dining room at some point. And my money's on Angie.”

“No.” He shook his head. “They both have an alibi.”

“You're kidding me. Where
were
they that afternoon?”

“I don't know specifics,” Danny said. “But I do know this: Neither of those women was anywhere within a mile of the Casa Lido when Gio Parisi was killed.”