Murder and Marinara (18 page)

“And Angie benefits big-time,” I added. “And speaking of the Black Widow, let me tell you about my very interesting lunch with her.”

My sister-in-law was uncharacteristically silent as I recounted the salient points of my conversation with Angie/Anjelica, but the minute I paused for breath, she jumped in.

“You think she's telling the truth about those letters?”

“Danny told me the cops knew about them, so I assume they exist.”

“If the murderer sent them, wouldn't that give the cops a strong lead? I wish we could get a look at them.”

“Not that I'm not curious, SIL, but they wouldn't tell us much.” From my own research I knew that people who sent anonymous letters usually knew enough to wear gloves, avoid licking the envelope, and post the letters far from where they lived.

I was about to explain that to her when she sailed through the EZPass toll at top speed, then changed the subject as quickly as she changed lanes. “So she claims she was in Ocean Grove taking a yoga class last Tuesday.” She tapped restlessly on the steering wheel. “I don't get it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what's in Ocean Grove to interest Angie?” she asked. “Antiques and little shops? She sure wasn't there for a prayer meeting.” She shook her head. “It's a weird choice. Now, if she'd said she was in Atlantic City or Wildwood—that I could believe.”

“Well, we'll find out, won't we? Exit's coming up.”

As we entered the quaint confines of the little town, I couldn't help but agree with Sofia's assessment. Ocean Grove had been established as a Methodist community and still held prayer meetings every summer. Any nightlife was next door in Asbury Park. It was a dry town and home to an eclectic mix of people that didn't normally include the glamorous wives of television producers.

Our first stop was the art center at the top of the main street in town. “I haven't been here in a long time,” I told Sofia, “but I know there used to be a community bulletin board with events and stuff. Let's see if there's a yoga class.”

As we scanned the board, we saw flyers for a local theater production of
Much Ado About Nothing
and an upcoming appearance by the New Jersey Ballet. There was also a tour of historic houses planned for June. But no yoga.

“May I help you?” A middle-aged woman got up from behind a desk.

“Yes,” I said. “We were looking for a yoga class in town that a friend told us about.”

“Oh, that's on Tuesdays in the studio upstairs,” she said. “You missed it by a day.”

Sofia dug her elbow into my side. “But are we sure this is the class Angie meant?” she asked, her brown eyes the picture of innocence. I gave her a quick elbow jab in return.

“We're pretty sure our friend took last Tuesday's class,” I said, “but maybe you remember her? People say she looks like Angelina Jolie.”

“Oh my goodness, yes,” the woman said. “Such a striking woman. She was here for the two o'clock class last week. I remember her clearly.” She smiled and handed us a brochure. “Just fill this out, and we can get you both in starting next week.”

Sofia tugged at my arm. “Oh, we'll just take it with us. Thanks!”

As we walked toward the town center, we started to put a time frame together. “If she was here for a two o'clock class,” Sofia said, “that means the latest she could have left our area was one thirty.”

“And at one thirty Parisi was still up at the boardwalk; he didn't come into the restaurant until two hours later.”

Sofia opened the brochure. “This says the class is forty-five minutes. If she didn't stop for coffee like she said, she could have made it back to the restaurant.”

“On to the coffee shops, then.”

We walked the length of the main street in a matter of minutes and counted the cafés.

“Should we split up?” Sofie asked. “We'll get done quicker, and then we can have lunch.”

“There's only a few places,” I said. “And I think it's better if we have two pairs of eyes and ears. And we can eat somewhere along the way.”

The first two shops yielded nothing more than blank looks and head shakes from the staff. We walked into the third one, Café au Lait, and were greeted by a bearded bear of a guy behind the counter.

“What can I get you ladies?” As the offerings included lunch, we decided to refuel first and ask questions later. Big Bear motioned us to a table and then brought our sandwiches out to us.

Sofia batted her eyes at him while I rolled my own. “Can we ask you a question?”

He rested his hands across his generous belly. “Sure.”

“A friend of ours was in town last week and raved about an iced latte she had. Do you make those here?” Sofia asked.

“We do, indeed,” he said. “Can I get you one?”

“Not right now,” she said. “Thanks, but—”

“Actually,” I interrupted, “may we presume on your time just one more minute?” I dug into my bag and produced the picture. “This is our friend. Can you tell us if she came in last Tuesday?”

Big Bear chuckled and raised his thick eyebrows. “Oh yeah, she was here all right. Came in around three. Her and that other lady.”

That other lady?
I glanced at Sofia, who looked up sharply. “Somebody was with her?” I asked, straining to keep the curiosity out of my voice.

“Yup. I'm not likely to forget either one of those two.” He glanced over at a customer at a nearby table and lowered his voice. “They had a screaming match, the two of 'em, right there at that table. I hadda ask them to leave.”

Sofia's eyes were wide. “You're kidding.”

He shook his head. “It was pretty bad. I mean, in this economy, who kicks out paying customers?”

“This other lady,” I said slowly. “Do you remember what she looked like?”

“Hell, yeah. She was a tiny woman, especially next to the other one. I thought she was on the younger side until I got up close. She had blond hair.” He paused. “And a lotta makeup.”

Thank you, Big Bear, for being so observant
. “Did she have long bangs?” I asked. “Blue eyes? They're an unusual color—almost turquoise.”

“Yeah. Sounds like you know her.”

“Slightly,” I said.

“I don't remember Angie telling us about a fight. Do you, Vic?” Sofia said with exaggerated emphasis.
Real smooth, Sofe
. “Could that have been her friend Susie?”

I opened my mouth, but Big Bear got there first. “Nah,” he said, “that wasn't her name. Just before I threw them out, when they were getting really loud, the short one said something that really pissed the big one off. Then I hear the big one say—clear as day, mind you—‘You bitch, Emily. I'll kill you for this.'”

Emily
. There was only one Emily in this scenario. And my brother had been right: If they were in the Café au Lait at three o'clock, neither one of these women was anywhere near the restaurant the day Gio Parisi was killed.

T
hat evening I took a walk on the boardwalk to clear my head (and to grab some saltwater taffy). I passed the arcades and the rides pier, already lit up for the start of the season. I eventually made my way to the old movie theater, where I'd spent many a rainy Saturday afternoon. The Paramount didn't show first-run films anymore, but it had a new life as an art house. I wandered over to look at the posters on each side of its massive doors. Next month was a French film retrospective, featuring
Diabolique
and
Jules and Jim
. That didn't interest me much, but I looked with longing at tonight's offering, an Astaire-Rogers double feature. But the sad truth was that I didn't have time for Fred and Ginger or walks down memory lane. I sighed as I turned to go. I had work to do, and it was time to get started.

Back at the cottage, I settled down at my computer to break down this case, much in the same way I planned Bernardo's mysteries—with a chart.

I stared at the screen, my heart sinking. Laid out like this, there were only two clear front-runners: Mr. B and Tim. Which brought us right back to where we had started a week ago.
Unless you're missing something, Vic. Think!
I glanced at the chart again. Cal was also on the scene, but he had no motive—that we knew of, anyway. But I couldn't rule him out.

“If you know how, you know who,” I said to myself. And it was time to find out more about how Parisi may have been murdered. Danny had said the medical examiner suspected a plant poison, but I didn't know the first thing about them. (In my Bernardo series, I had yet to kill anybody with poison. They're unpredictable, messy, and not always easy to get ahold of. Give me a nice clean shove off a cliff any day.)

There had to be dozens of poisonous plants that grew in Jersey, so where to begin? It seemed logical to talk to Iris Harrington first, but the shop was closed, and Iris, who was not a believer in cell phones, had only a landline. Since she didn't believe in answering machines, either, I was left with only my spotty memory of our conversation.

What had she said? I remembered something about holly berries—or was it juniper berries? But either way, there was nothing on Parisi's salad that looked remotely like a berry. I struggled to remember the salad plate and the greens that were on it. Arugula, certainly, but nothing else—at least that I could remember—that looked leafy.
But leaves could be chopped up
, said a voice in my head. And the bitterness of the arugula might have disguised the taste of those leaves.

What other plants had Iris talked about? I closed my eyes to concentrate. There was a name I recognized because it had been in the title of a book I'd read whose cover had a white flower. White lily? White narcissus? No.
Oleander.
That was it.

I clicked open my browser to get started. A quick look on garden Web sites indicated that the flowers were definitely grown in Jersey. I also learned that the plant contained a substance that could cause heart failure. Ingesting it caused nausea, vomiting, and diarrhea, all signs consistent with Parisi's symptoms. But the articles I read pointed out another fact: Oleander causes burning in the mouth. I watched Parisi shovel that salad down his throat in a matter of minutes; if his mouth burned, wouldn't he have stopped eating it? I made a few more notes about the plant, but I doubted this was our candidate.

As I mentally replayed my conversation with Iris, I remembered the word “weed.” A poisonous weed? And for some reason I kept imagining a cowboy—maybe it grew out West? I scrolled down the poisonous plants page until I hit
Phytolacca
, commonly known as pokeweed. My eyes widened when I read what pokeweed leaves are used for—salad. “But leaves must be cooked twice in separate water,” the article read. “Roots and berries are poisonous. Improper cooking of leaves may result in serious poisoning.” I stared at the image of the plant; the long green leaves did indeed look like salad greens. And if those greens were uncooked, they might well have been responsible for killing Parisi.

I added pokeweed to my notes and strained to recall what else Iris had mentioned. The last thing I remembered from that conversation was a plant I thought she called “purple digit,” but a Google search brought up only a bunch of medical articles about circulatory diseases. I rubbed my tired eyes; I'd spent too much time in front of a screen and too many hours playing detective. I opened my e-mail, ignored the full in-box, and sent Sofia a copy of the chart I'd made and links to the articles about poisonous plants.

It was a relief to shut down the computer and put the day behind me. I took a hot bath, threw on my favorite sleep attire—an oversized T-shirt from the Boss's last Meadowlands appearance—and slipped under the covers of my narrow bed. The cool night air, carrying the smell of the sea, washed over me from the open window. I had come here for a peaceful place to write my book, to learn about my family's business and its roots in America. And here I was researching poisons and making lists of suspects. Beyond that, I had been pulled back into Tim's orbit, yet found myself attracted to another man. Both of whom, I reminded myself, were on the premises when Parisi was killed.

I sighed and straightened the covers under my chin. Closing my eyes, I tried to let the sound of the sea lull me to sleep, but my mind fought back. I saw Parisi sitting at Table Five. Tina Biaggio's horrified face on film. Tim's dawning fear as Angie asked,
What have you done?
Emily Haverford's grief. Cal's stony expression of denial. Angie's red-lipped, predatory smile. The images made a slow circle in my head, a mental Ferris wheel that wouldn't stop turning. I lay awake another hour, until exhaustion finally won out. But when I did sleep, it was only to have uneasy dreams about white oleanders, purple fingers, and salads made of noxious weeds.

•   •   •

Too groggy to write, the next morning I made a mental promise to Isabella that I would spend more time with her once I figured out how to keep the restaurant open. Tomorrow was the kickoff of Memorial Day weekend; in fact, by dinner hour today, Oceanside would be getting the first wave of summer weekenders who had tomorrow off. As I biked down to the restaurant, I thought again about the list of suspects I'd made last evening and couldn't shake the niggling worry that I'd forgotten something—or somebody. I wondered again about our mayor, Anne McCrae. But Parisi's water bottle was clean. And even if we couldn't take Anne's word that he hadn't eaten anything, Fifi had said the same thing. When would Anne have had the opportunity to poison him? And if the toxic substance came from plant matter, the most likely way Parisi would have ingested it was through his lunchtime salad. But Anne was a gardener, and she would have known plants.

I swerved quickly on the old Schwinn and doubled back a block to the Seaside Apothecary, where I hoped that Iris would translate her “purple digit” reference for me. But I got there to find a hand-scrawled note on the shop's front door:
Away until Monday. See you then!

“That's great, Iris,” I muttered. “Let's hope Monday's not too late.”

I was surprised to find my parents and grandmother at the Casa Lido ahead of me. “What are you guys doing here?” I asked, after dutifully making the rounds to kiss them.

My dad rubbed his hands together. “Tim says we're busy at lunch again, sweetheart. The Casa Lido's coming back, just like I said.”

I looked from my mother to my grandmother, whose skeptical faces reflected my own, but not one of us opened our mouths. I patted my dad's shoulder. “That's the spirit, Daddy. We've got to be ready for tomorrow, right?”

“Never mind tomorrow, honey. By tonight all those vans will be driving into town, filled with people hungry for a plate of real Italian food.”

But will they be pulling into our parking lot, Dad? Not likely.

My grandmother snorted, either in disgust or assent. Maybe both. “I have given Tim the day off,” she announced.

“Oh?” I said. “Is he coming in for dinner?”

She shook her head. “Massimo and Nando will be handling things today and tonight. Perhaps tomorrow, too.”

My mother turned to face her mother-in-law. “Is that necessary, Mama?” she asked quietly.

Nonna gave a classic Italian shrug, lifting one shoulder slowly, followed by a lift of her palm. “The boy needs a break.”

Sure, Nonna, and now maybe you'd like to sell me the Driscoll Bridge
. “I know why you told Tim not to come in,” I said. “You think he's bad for business.”

“Victoria!” My mother and father gasped in unison. Whether they were shocked at my intimation or my challenge to my grandmother was not clear.

“It's true, isn't it?” I said.

My grandmother blinked once behind her glasses, the only sign I'd ruffled her. “Why do you defend him, after what he did to you?”

My face burned. What happened with Tim was a topic my grandmother had studiously avoided. But it was gratifying (and kinda shocking) to know that she cared. “Nonna, that's old history.”

“Whether it is or isn't,” she said, “it's better he's not here.” She turned to go into the kitchen, the doors swinging behind her

“Mom—Daddy, c'mon. Are you gonna let her do that?” I was surprised by how upset I sounded.

My mom put her arm around me and rested her head against mine. “People are talking, honey. It's just how it is in small towns.”

I pulled away from her quickly. “You know Tim didn't kill him. You both know that!” My words echoed across the empty dining room, and in the silence that followed, a thought struck me: Did my parents know that Anjelica was actually Angie Martini? If they did, they'd have even more reason to suspect Tim. But if my mom had made that connection, she would have mentioned it to me—that was for darn sure. In the meantime, I had to hope they wouldn't find out just yet. I turned to my dad. “He's not a murderer, Daddy.”

“Baby, nobody suggested such a thing,” my dad said. “But we're struggling to stay alive here. Tim's been working hard anyway. He could use a day or two off, right?” He reached over and grabbed my chin. “Now let me see my girl smile.”

“Okay, okay.” I grimaced just long enough for him to let go of my face. “But really, since when does the Rienzi family care what people think?”

“Since their business has fallen off,” my mom responded with a sigh. “It's just temporary, honey. This will all blow over and Tim will be back, and the customers will be back—you'll see.”

But it sounded as if my mother was trying to convince herself of her own words. “I hope so, Mom.” I looked around the dining room. “Where's Cal this morning, by the way?”

“He's been and gone already,” my mother said shortly, turning to me with her hands on her hips. “And why are you interested in where Mr. Lockhart is?”

“‘Mr. Lockhart,' is it? My, aren't we formal. I was just wondering.”

She waved a manicured hand in my direction. “Well, you can just stop wondering. He's not for you.”

“Who said anything about him as a romantic prospect, Mother?” I tied on a black apron in the hopes of conveying the impression that I wanted to get to work.

“I know you were up at the boardwalk together the other evening.”

I'd started to get the coffee urns ready and paused with the filter basket still in my hand. “Do you have spies out following me?”

“Of course not, Victoria. Mrs. Foglia, who works at the fudge shop, was told by Jenny at the Surf Shack, who heard it from Louie Ianuzzi, who saw you at his stand. How was the calamari, by the way?”

“The calamari was delicious. Thank you.” I dumped coffee into the basket without measuring, telling myself that it was surely too soon to give up and go back to the city. “What else did you learn?”

“Well, you must like him, darling, or how else could he have gotten you up on that Ferris wheel? I mean, the last time you went on a ride with Tim, well—”

“Yes, Mom. I remember. Thank you. Aren't you going to ask whether he kissed me or not?”
If I hurry, I can be packed and heading north on the Parkway this afternoon.

My mother tossed a few hair extensions over her shoulder. “I am well aware that he did not.”

“Why? Because it was our first date?”

“No, darling, because Daniel happened to be driving by in his squad car as Mr. Lockhart was taking his leave of you.”

“‘Taking his leave of me'?” I couldn't help smiling. “How many Regency romances are loaded on that Kindle of yours, anyway?”

“Don't be smart, missy. And don't try to change the subject. I think you should stay away from Calvin Lockhart.”

“No worries on that score, Mom, okay? And now I need to face the dragon in the kitchen.”

“Don't be disrespectful, Victoria!” she called after me, and I groaned. Being back here made me feel like I was sixteen again, and not in a good way. And if I was hoping my grandmother would let me do some cooking this morning, I sure had another thing coming.