Murder and Marinara (24 page)

“N
o.” I leaned close to the glass and cupped my hands around my eyes to peer inside, but there was nothing to see except empty tables. When had this happened? And more important, why? Well, it was time to do something I'd avoided in the two weeks since I'd been back in Oceanside—go home.

It was no more than a couple of blocks to Seventh Street and the house where I'd grown up. The once stately Victorian had been chopped up into two large apartments, with Nonna upstairs on the third floor and my mom and dad occupying the first and second. As I stood on the wide porch, I briefly indulged my fantasy of restoring the house to its original splendor.
Maybe someday
, I thought.
After I sell about a billion books
.

I knocked at the front door, then realized where they'd be on such a gorgeous, almost summer day. I walked to the back, with its deep green yard and gardens along both sides, one for flowers and one for vegetables. My mom was at her potting bench and my dad sat out on the deck, reading the paper and sipping coffee.

“Hey,” my dad said. “This is a nice surprise.”

“Unlike the one I got at the restaurant.” I kissed his cheek and waved to my mom. She frowned, shaded her eyes, and then dropped her trowel. “Hi, Mom,” I called.

“Hi, honey!” She bounded up to me, but stopped short, holding out her gloved hands. “I can't hug you. I'm a dirty mess.”

I took in my mother's neatly twisted hair, designer T-shirt, and pressed khaki shorts. “Hardly,” I said. “You even do your gardening fashionably.”

“Please sit, honey.” She peeled off her gloves. “There's still coffee in the pot. Or maybe some nice iced tea?”

“I'm good, Mom, really. Just wondering about that sign in the restaurant window.”

My parents exchanged a glance; then my dad closed the paper, reached over and patted my hand. “Listen, honey, it's just temporary. Until all this blows over.”

“It might not ‘blow over' for a while, Daddy. In a couple of days, the county prosecutor is going to start dragging us all in for questioning. And you know it looks bad for Tim. If there's an arrest—”

“Don't even say it, honey!” My mom shook her head so vigorously, two long curls escaped from their barrette. “No one at the Casa Lido had anything to do with that man's death.”

“We know that, Mom, but I don't think Regina Sutton does. As I started to say, if there's an arrest, there will also be a trial, with lots of publicity.” I didn't feel the need to mention my deal with Nina LaGuardia; they'd find out soon enough. “This is likely to drag on for a while. Are we just going to give up?”

“No, baby, of course not,” my dad said. “But it's expensive to keep the Casa Lido open, and we've lost so much business as it is . . .” He raised both shoulders in a shrug, as if that said it all.

“Nonna's gotta be crazy. How'd you talk her into this?”

My mom and dad looked at each other and then back at me. “It was her idea,” my mom said.

“No way. She was one who was insisting on staying open. She wanted business as usual.”

My mom nodded. “She did. But now she's discouraged. She's eighty, Victoria. It's all too much for her.”

“Since when?” I got to my feet and pointed. “Is she up there?”

“I think so, hon,” my mom said. “But we've barely had a visit.”

“I'll be back. I promise.” I gave her a hasty kiss on the cheek. “Right now I need to find out what's up with my grandmother.”

I walked up the outside stairway that led to her kitchen, and before she even opened the door, the smell told me I was home. She opened the door and frowned. “What are you doing here?”

“Hello to you, too. Why are you making Sunday Sauce on a Saturday?”

She shrugged and gestured for me to come inside. “What else do I have to do?” She took a plate from the cabinet, put two meatballs on it, and set it down in front of me.

“You could be at the restaurant, bossing everybody around,” I said. “Dictating the sauce recipes to Massi and yelling at him when he doesn't follow them. You could be fighting with Mom and talking to Nando in Span-Italian. And you haven't made me a list in a while.”

Her eyes were sad behind her glasses. “You know what I wanted you to do.”

“And I'm doing it, Nonna. I promise. I'll have an answer soon.”

“It's too late. The season already started and we're losing money every day. And if there's a big trial and all that publicity, well . . .” She shook her head.

I put my hand over hers. “Don't talk like that. It's not like you to give up.”

Instead of answering, she gestured to my plate. “Eat.”

“Nonna, I'm not hungry. I just had lunch.”

“What did you have?”

“I had a salad, just a little while ago.”

She was silent, but here is what her face said: that I considered a mere salad “lunch” was an affront to my grandmother, her meatballs, and all of Italian culture. “You're skin and bones,” she said, taking a roll from a brown bag on her counter. She threw it down in front of me, a clear challenge. Unless I started eating, she'd cook up a pound of pasta, too.

I cut a meatball into quarters and brought the first piece to my mouth. I closed my eyes for the flavor implosion of tomato, meat, basil, garlic, eggs, and cheese; it was almost enough to make me forget the reason for my visit. “Umm. Nonna, they're amazing. Just like I remember.”

When I opened my eyes, she was smiling in her charming, tight-lipped way. Now was the time to strike. “Can I have the key to the restaurant?”

She crossed her arms and scowled. “What for?”

“I won't do any cooking. I promise. I just want to go over everything again. All the events of that day. There might be something we missed.”

She left the kitchen and came back with a ring of keys. “You know which one?”

“Of course.” I stuck the keys in my pocket, knowing I was now compelled to finish the meatballs and bread. All in service of the case, of course.

I left my grandmother's house, having made her two promises. One, I wouldn't touch a thing in the Casa Lido kitchen. Two, I'd come up with Parisi's murderer before the weekend was out. So now I had to answer to not one formidable woman, but three—Nina LaGuardia, Regina Sutton, and my grandmother, the scariest of them all.

•   •   •

I let myself into the empty restaurant, struck by the contrast of its quiet interior with the bustle of the street outside. Oceanside was coming alive for the season, but the Casa Lido was eerily still. That would change, starting right now. Determined to re-create the day of Parisi's death, I started by putting on an apron. Instead of an order pad, I tucked a notebook and pen in its pocket and stationed myself in the spot where I'd stood that afternoon. I closed my eyes, let out a breath, and tried to see it all in my head:

Parisi shows up at the door, and I tell him we're closed for regular business. He walks past me, sits at Table Five, says he wants a house salad with grilled chicken. Cal notices him arguing with me but doesn't move from the bar area. Parisi asks for a San Pellegrino and a cup of tea. He says he wants the chicken well-done and the dressing on the side.

At this point, I stopped the scenario and walked into the kitchen, as I had that day. I took out my phone and noted the time and started walking and talking myself through the events:

Tim is in the kitchen, and I ask him to grill some chicken. I tell him Parisi is out there. I offer to make the salad. Tim gets angry and says he won't make Parisi's lunch. Mr. B comes in the back door, asks who we're talking about and gets angry. Calls Parisi a
cafone
and offers to “throw him out like garbage.” I tell him we don't want any trouble and put the kettle on to boil Parisi's hot water. I take out some bread and the bottled water and ask Tim again to make the lunch. He starts prepping the chicken and says, “Tell Lockhart to stay the hell out of my kitchen.”

I looked at my phone; about three minutes had passed. Allowing for all our movements in the kitchen, I added another three to four minutes. So once he sat down, Parisi was alone in the dining room for approximately five to seven minutes. Except for Cal, who at some point had been in the kitchen, according to Tim. And five minutes was plenty of time to slip Parisi something, but how? There was no food or drink on his table yet. However, Parisi
could
have swallowed a pill dry or used his own water bottle to take one. Despite what Anne McCrae said about the food, I wasn't ready to give up on my switched-medication theory just yet. I went back to the kitchen and noted the time again. I took a bread basket and a water bottle, as I had that day, and backed out through the kitchen doors.

I stop at the coffee station for a cup, a saucer, and a tea bag. I take everything to Table Five and set them down in front of him. I tell him the hot water is coming. He says no to bread and starts to bait me about the protest. I pick up the bread basket and start to leave, and he reminds me that he wants the hot water.

My second exchange with Parisi can't be more than a minute or so. If he'd taken a pill, it would probably be too soon for his symptoms to start. So far so good.

I go back to the kitchen, where the water is now boiling. I fill a carafe and bring it to Parisi. He takes a packet of sweetener from the dish on the table and empties it into his teacup. Then he asks me to pour the hot water.

I froze in place, holding the empty carafe over the imaginary teacup. The sweetener. There was something about the sweetener . . .

“I'm looking for Victoria Rienzi.”

The deep rumble came from somewhere behind me; I swung around, heart pounding, realizing too late that I hadn't locked the door behind me. The man in the middle of the dining room was thickset, with broad shoulders and the face of a prizefighter, a look that was at odds with his peach-colored golf shirt, green madras shorts, and boat shoes. I pointed to the door with a shaking hand. “Um, we're closed, sir.”

“I noticed.” He stood with his arms clasped in front of him. “I'm not here to eat.” His words were ominous, as was his hooded expression. “Michael Gemelli is a business associate of mine.” He smiled, flashing me a row of nicotine-stained teeth. “Michael Senior, that is.”

I gripped the carafe, wondering how true my aim would be if I had to hurl it at his head. He took a step closer and I took a step back. “Who are you?” I asked.

“Oh, I apologize. I should have introduced myself. My name is Rossini. Fredo Rossini.”

Fredo? They sent Fredo to threaten me? I don't know why this reassured me, as I was still alone in the restaurant with a thug. A preppie thug, but a thug all the same. Now holding the carafe in front me, I asked what he wanted.

He held up two thick fingers. “Well, miss, I'm here to talk about two things: trespassing and serendipity.”

I got the trespassing part, all right. Somehow Gemelli had gotten wind of our little trip to his house. I opened my mouth to speak, but Fredo kept going.

“Now, about the first matter, Mr. Gemelli has no wish to pursue any action. With the understanding, of course, that you desist from pursuing any action of your own. And that is where serendipity comes in.”

“Uh, Mr. Rossini, I'm not sure what you're talking about.”

“Ah, but you're a writer. You must understand serendipity. It's something that is fortuitous.”

Or as he pronounced it,
faw-TOOH-it-tiss
. “I know what it means,” I said, “but I don't understand its application here.”

“Well, sometimes in life we have to make things happen. And sometimes”—he opened his palms and tilted his head—“we don't. Mr. Gemelli would like me to inform you that a recent happening—one that transpired on these very premises—was, in fact, serendipitous. And was not in any way planned or calculated.”

In other words, Gio Parisi's death was just a lucky break for Gemelli and son. I was no fan of Gio Parisi, but this was a pretty cold-blooded attitude to take toward a man who'd made Mikey G and his daddy very rich men. I gripped the metal carafe. Much as I'd like to give in to righteous anger, I couldn't afford the luxury. Gemelli was offering me a veiled deal—he wouldn't have me arrested for trespassing if I crossed him off our list of suspects. But he still had a powerful motive. And there was also the question of that garden bench. “I understand, Mr. Rossini.”

“
Brava
, Miss Rienzi. You're a smart girl. But you'd have to be, right?” He reached into his back pocket, and my insides turned to water. But he wasn't holding a Glock, just a beat-up copy of
Molto
Murder
. “While I'm here, could I bother you to sign this for me?”

This scene was growing more surreal by the minute. “Uh, okay.” I dug into my apron pocket for my pen and scrawled a shaky “Vick Reed” on the flyleaf, while Rossini hovered over my shoulder.

“Could you make it out to ‘Fredo'?” he asked.

Did I have a choice? I complied and handed the book back to him, looking nervously toward the door. Surely he'd leave now.

Fredo Rossini inclined his head and smiled. “Thank you, Miss Rienzi. I'll tell Mr. Gemelli our talk was a productive one.”

In a way, he was right. My gut was saying that Gemelli was telling the truth. If he had wanted Parisi out of the way, he had better and more efficient means at his disposal than poison.

A bit shaky from the encounter, I locked the door behind my visitor and, still carrying the carafe, walked back to Table Five. I'd left off at pouring the hot water and noticed the sweetener. Something about it was important, but what? Poison in the saccharine was too far-fetched. Should I start over? But the more I tried to retrace my steps, the less I knew. So I would treat this just as I would a case of writer's block—with a distraction. And I knew exactly what that distraction would be.