Murder and Marinara (28 page)

T
he Casa Lido opened its doors the next morning, just as it had every other Memorial Day for seventy years. We sat at the family table, fortifying ourselves with espresso for the busy morning ahead.

“That phone is ringing off the hook,” my dad said, snapping open the
Asbury Park Press
,
which featured “Wife and Mistress Conspire to Murder RealTV Producer” as its top story.

“Curiosity seekers.” My mom leaned over to read the headline and pursed her lips. “I still can't believe you and Sofia put yourselves into that kind of danger.”

“I tried to tell them that, Ma.” Danny's arm tightened around Sofia's shoulder, while she glanced at him adoringly. Judging from their high-watt glow, it appeared a reconciliation was in the works. I smiled at Sofia, who didn't notice it. Or the frown my mother was casting in her direction. Ah, love.

“We're fine, Mom.” I patted her arm. “And now that little black book of yours will be filled right up. Aren't you relieved that the Casa Lido isn't under a cloud of suspicion anymore?”

“
Certo
,” Massimo said. “I could not work under such conditions.” He tossed his head, then held out his coffee cup in a toast. “To Signora Giulietta, who save the day.”

“To my ma,” my dad said proudly. “Who took down a murderer.”

Nando nodded. “To our
abuelita
.”

I lifted my cup. “To Nonna, who saved my . . . behind.”

“Hmmph,” my grandmother grumbled. “That
puttana
is lucky it was my stainless-steel pan and not the cast-iron.

I grinned at her. “Don't sound so disappointed.”

My mother shook her head. “Those two women took an awful chance. How did they know it would work?”

Danny shrugged. “They didn't. But every murderer takes a risk. Theirs almost paid off.”

“But, Victoria,” my mom asked, “how did you know they were in it together?”

I downed the rest of my espresso and shook my head. “I didn't. Not till it was too late. But one night I took a walk down to the Paramount, and there was this poster for a French film festival and—”

“Oh my goodness,” my mom interrupted, her eyes growing wide. “I know which film you mean. Daddy and I saw it years ago. It's the one with Simone Signoret where the wife and the girlfriend plan the husband's murder—
Diabolique
.”

“You got it, Mom. Too bad I didn't. But it was in the back of my mind all the time, bugging the heck out of me. That alibi was just too convenient.” I turned to my brother. “Danny, are they talking at all? I'm wondering how they got together in the first place.”

“Right now,” he said, “it's just a lotta ‘she said, she said' as far as who came up with the plan. But apparently Parisi was threatening Angie with divorce. And Sarah was still furious over being burned by the guy.” He finished his coffee and set the cup down. “At some point they decided they'd team up and get their revenge. And a whole lotta dough at the same time.”

“Well,” I said, “you have to hand it to them.”

“Hand it to them? Victoria, they are evil!” Nonna's eyes narrowed. “Especially that Angie, who finally got what she deserved.”

I had a feeling Nonna was talking about more than murder, and apparently so did my mother. She raised her brow and smiled. “You know what they say about karma, don't you, honey?”

I shot my mom a quick wink. “Yes, I do, Mother. And it's especially apt in this case.”

“Well, they should both burn in hell.” My grandmother crossed herself and looked at the ceiling. “May God forgive me.”

“Evil or not, Nonna, it was brilliantly simple. They knew he was drinking that diet tea every day. So they doctor it with a substance they know will kill him and wait.”

“They did more than that, Vic,” Sofia said. “Remember Angie called him a bunch of times to see where he was. I bet she egged him on to come here and eat.”

“Absolutely,” I said. “She checked the place out. Think about it: She knows Tim works at a restaurant near the boardwalk where Parisi was appearing. So she employs her dubious charms on him and cases the Casa Lido. She sees the plant in the garden, and the plan takes shape. And then her ex ends up making the ‘fatal' lunch. It was the perfect setup.”

“Almost perfect,” Sofia said. “They didn't think about the police searching the trash.”

“Until it was too late,” I added. “So they locked Tim and me in the pantry.”

My mother sighed and shook her head. “Poor Tim, to have been involved with that woman. To have her use him in that way—”

“What about ‘poor Tim'?”

The conversation stopped abruptly as its subject came through the front door. He looked pale, with dark smudges under his eyes.

“We're, uh, talking about last night,” I said.

“Right.” He strode past us and pushed through the kitchen doors.

I pushed away from the table. “Excuse me a minute, guys.”

In the kitchen, Tim was pulling packages from the refrigerator and slamming them on the counter. “What are you here for, Vic?” he asked over his shoulder. “To gloat about Angie? Or for my undying gratitude for saving my ass?”

“Tim, will you look at me, please?” He turned, crossed his arms, and waited. “I'm sorry about Angie. God knows, I have no love for her, but it can't be easy knowing you were involved with a murderer.”

He flinched, and when he spoke, his voice was hard. “She could have killed you. Probably would have if your crazy nonna hadn't shown up.”

“But I'm okay. And now you are, too. It's over, finally.”

His lips were drawn into a thin line. “Did you want a thank-you, Vic? Is that it?”

“Well, a little gratitude would be nice, but that's not what I came to talk to you about.”

He lifted a shoulder, his arms still crossed. “So talk.”

I stepped closer, about to lay a hand on his arm, but thought better of it. “Look, Tim.” I sighed. “I finally figured out something important. In a way, Angie Martini did me a favor all those years ago. If we hadn't broken up, I'd never have gone to New York or had a writing career. Don't you see? Things happened for a reason—”

“And this is your great epiphany,” he said, his voice harsh. “That losing me was the best thing that ever happened to you.”

“I didn't say that!” I gasped. My anger rising, I jabbed a finger at his chest. “Losing you nearly killed me. But I survived. And I'm the better for it.”

He tilted his head, his eyes two dark stones. “Glad to be of service, Vic,” he said bitterly, turning back to the sink without a word.

I stalked past him out the back door of the restaurant and stood facing the garden, breathing in its smells for comfort. So this was what I'd come home to. I shook my head.

“Hey, SIL.” Sofia put her hand on my shoulder. “What's up with Top Chef?”

“Apparently he's mad at me for keeping him out of jail.”

She grinned. “Makes perfect sense.”

“Never mind me. What's going on with you and my brother?”

She tilted her head, her eyes innocent. “Nothing.”

“Yeah, I could tell that when you were draped all over him at the table.”

Before she could answer, the sound of tires on gravel pulled our attention to the parking lot. Cal jumped from his truck and grabbed his toolbox from the back. He turned, smiled briefly at Sofia, and nodded.

“Hey, Cal,” I said. “Listen, can we talk for a minute?”

“Sorry, Victoria,” he said. “Runnin' late.” He hurried past us into the restaurant and I sighed. I seemed to be doing a lot of that today.

“Well, that message was loud and clear.”

“Did you expect him to ask you on a date?” Sofia asked. “You practically called him a murderer.”

“Not in so many words.” I shook my head. “Men. What can you do with them?”

“Can't accuse them of murder,” Sofia said.

“Can't save their sorry asses.”

“Can't live with 'em—” she began.

“And ya can't kill 'em,” I said.

“Oh wait,” Sofia said, her dark eyes full of mischief. “Sometimes you can.” She stopped, her face suddenly serious. “Vic, were you scared last night?”

I looked around to make sure no family members were in earshot. “Shitless,” I told her. “What about you?”

She nodded, but her eyes shone. “Well, yeah, but . . .”

“But what?”

“It was kind of a rush, don't you think?” Her words gathered speed, and I knew just where they were headed. “I mean, it was exciting. All of it. Figuring it out, digging for evidence—”

I grinned. “Literally.”

“Literally, exactly! And taking them out just felt so good, Vic. It felt right to me.” She lowered her voice and put her face close to mine. “I mean, wouldn't you like the chance to do that again?”

“Oh, no, you don't. Don't even say it.” I backed away from her, holding up my hand to stop my sister-in-law's crazy train before it flattened me. “I will never get mixed up in anything like this again. No way. Do you understand me?”

But Sofia just smiled.

•   •   •

I peeled the garlic clove slowly and sliced it neatly down the middle. As I pushed it to the side of the cutting board, a hand closed around my arm like a steel claw.

“Did you take out the green sprout?”

“Yes, Nonna.”

“And you're not cutting them too small?”

“No, Nonna.”

“Don't roll your eyes at me, Victoria. Do you want to learn how to cook, or not?”

I looked at my grandmother's upraised chin, her square shoulders, and the still-strong arms that had protected me from a crazed killer. I wouldn't risk a kiss, but maybe I could hazard a smile.

“Yes, Nonna,” I told her. “I do.”

I
turned in the manuscript for this book less than a day before Hurricane Sandy struck. As the storm progressed, it devastated many areas along the Jersey Shore, including locales mentioned in my story; it also caused the deaths of at least five people in Monmouth and Ocean Counties. Since October 2012, many have come to associate the Jersey Shore with that terrible storm. But I made a conscious decision not to include mention of it in this book.

I wanted my fictional world to be a Jersey Shore that was untouched by the ravages of Sandy, a place where readers could find escape in descriptions of the beach and boardwalk. I wanted to present a picture of the Jersey Shore that I, and so many of us, remember and hold precious.

I also worried it might be insensitive to fictionalize an event that had such a drastic impact on so many lives. As of this writing, many people in shore towns remain homeless, businesses are still shut down, and thousands of residents are struggling to put their lives back on track. Perhaps I will include a hurricane in a later book in the series, but only at a respectful distance from an event that shook us all to the core.

To support rebuilding efforts along the Jersey Shore, please consider a donation to www.restoretheshore.com.

Vic's nonna makes her marinara with peeled and seeded tomatoes she puts up herself each August, as does my brother, who's an awesome cook. My version takes a couple of shortcuts and can be served either chunky or smooth. (I don't bother with peeling and seeding. Don't tell Nonna. Or my brother.)

My sauce takes only about an hour from prep to table and requires just a knife and a cutting board. In the summer, I make it with any kind of tomatoes my gardener friends are kind enough to share—plum, beefsteak, even cherry. Out of season, plum tomatoes will give you the closest approximation of that garden taste. Make this once, and you'll never open another jar!

Rosie's Quick Marinara Sauce

10–12 fresh basil leaves, snipped into small ribbons

2 large cloves of garlic

2–3 lbs. fresh plum tomatoes (about a dozen)

¼ cup of chopped fresh parsley

2 tbs. extra-virgin olive oil

Salt and pepper, to taste

1. Prep fresh herbs and set aside.

2. Using the side of your knife, bruise the garlic cloves so that the peel slides off easily. Slice off the stem ends and cut cloves long ways; remove the “sprout.” Chop garlic roughly and set aside.

3. In a 4-qt. heavy-bottomed pot, heat the olive oil over medium heat. Add garlic and stir so that pieces are coated in oil. Watch them carefully—once they start to sizzle, turn off the heat. The garlic will continue to cook in the hot oil without burning.

4. Slice off stem ends of tomatoes and cut into large dice. Turn heat back on to medium high and add chopped tomatoes to garlic and oil. As tomatoes start to soften, stir to coat them in oil and their own juices. Press on tomato chunks with the back of your spoon. Add herbs and stir until well blended.

5. Allow tomatoes to cook, uncovered, at medium high until mixture comes to a moderate boil (about ten minutes or so). Smoosh tomatoes again, turn heat down to low and cover the pot. Simmer the mixture for 30–35 minutes.

6. Turn off the heat and season with salt and pepper. (I use about two teaspoons of salt and about 10 twists of the pepper mill, but I have a heavy hand with both. Go light and taste first!) Continue pressing tomatoes with spoon until preferred consistency.

7. If you like a chunky sauce, you're good to go. But if you like a smoother sauce and have the time, allow the mixture to cool, uncovered, for at least 20 minutes. Pour into food processor and pulse until the tomatoes lighten and consistency is smooth. Put back into pot and heat gently for about 10 minutes.

I generally don't follow a recipe when I make pesto, so the measurements below are only guidelines. Depending upon whether you prefer your pesto herby, cheesy, or nutty, feel free to play around with the proportions. Use more oil for a thinner paste and less for a thicker one. For a milder pesto, substitute pignoli nuts for the walnuts and parmesan for the Pecorino Romano.

Tim's Basil Walnut Pesto

½ cup of walnuts, lightly toasted ½ cup of extra-virgin olive oil

2 cloves of garlic

2 cups of fresh basil leaves

½ cup freshly grated Pecorino Romano cheese

Freshly grated pepper and salt, to taste

1. In a shallow skillet, toast the walnuts quickly over medium heat. Turn off the heat as they become golden brown and fragrant—don't scorch them.

2. Set nuts aside to cool. Use about ¼ cup of the olive oil and pour into the same pan; heat the oil over a medium flame. Peel garlic cloves, slice long ways and remove the green sprout. Drop garlic pieces into the hot oil. Once small bubbles form, turn off the heat and tip the pan so that cloves are completely coated in oil. They will continue cooking in hot oil without burning; set them aside.

3. In a food processor, pulse the basil leaves, the nuts, the garlic, and the oil from the pan until mixture is smooth. With processor running, slowly add the rest of the oil until the desired consistency. Add the grated cheese. Season with salt and pepper, to taste.

Think of a frittata as an Italian quiche without the buttery crust (and the extra calories). This supersized omelet can accommodate any number of vegetable/meat/cheese combinations and works for breakfast, lunch, or dinner. In my family, no frittata is complete without the addition of flavored bread crumbs for a crispy topping. This version is similar to the one served in the Casa Lido.

Chef Massimo's Frittata with Arugula

1–2 tablespoons of extra-virgin olive oil

1 quarter of a Vidalia onion, thinly sliced

5 ounces of baby arugula

8 large eggs

¼ lb. of Fontina cheese, cut into ½ inch cubes

½ teaspoon of salt

¼ teaspoon of black pepper

Italian-flavored bread crumbs for topping

1. Preheat oven to 350°

2. Heat oil in a well-seasoned 10-inch cast-iron pan or other heavy ovenproof skillet. Cook the onion over medium heat, separating it into ribbons, until nicely browned. Add arugula and cook, stirring frequently until wilted, for about 1–2 minutes.

3. Whisk together the eggs, cheese, salt, and pepper until frothy. Pour over arugula and onions in skillet and cook over medium heat without stirring until almost set, for about 5–6 minutes.

4. Remove from heat and sprinkle flavored bread crumbs over the top. Bake for 15–20 minutes until edges are golden brown and center is set.