Murder and Marinara (5 page)

She peeked out into the dining room. “Hey, isn't that the guy who was just up at the boards? From RealTV?”

“Gio Parisi.” I shook my head. “And he is really unpleasant.”

“I was wondering whose big ol' pimped-out Escalade was in my spot. And how lovely of him to mess up that whole table for me.” She turned to me and grinned. “Maybe we can arrange a nice case of food poisoning.”

“I think Tim already tried it with his chicken.”

She winked at me. “I'll take care of him. Then I'm gonna go say hi to Cutie-Pie Cal.”

“‘Cutie-Pie Cal'? ‘Dreamboat'? Does Billy know about you and the men of the Casa Lido?”

“I'm married, babe,” she called as she walked away. “Not dead.”

Lori came back with Parisi's plate and nodded toward the dining room. “He's just finishing his tea, but he's ready for the bill. I'll clear up when he's done.”

“Thanks, Lori.” When I brought Parisi the check, he handed me his credit card without a word. I pointed to his nearly empty teacup. “Are you through?”

“Leave that,” he barked. He downed the rest of his water and wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand. “You can take the water glass.”

I tucked his card and a pen into the black billfold and set it down next to him. His face was pale. “Would you like more water?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No. Where's the men's room?”

“Around that wall and to the right.” Holding his glass with two fingers as far away from me as possible, I brought it into the kitchen and then dumped the San Pellegrino bottle in the recycling bin. Then I scrubbed my hands again. Twice. Relieved that Tim was still missing from the kitchen, I backed out through the doors quickly, shaking my still-wet hands. But when I got back to his table, Gio Parisi was gone.

•   •   •

The Casa Lido started to come to life as dinner prep got under way. Cal was wrapping up his work at the bar, and Lori was in the back getting the specials from Tim. As promised, I filled and wiped all the salt and peppers, my nose twitching furiously. As I was finishing, Massimo Fabri, our executive chef, swept through the front doors and paused dramatically.

“
Cara!
You return!” He held his arms out to me, and I gave him a European double kiss, one for each cheek. “You look wonderful.”

“So do you, Massi.” Our chef, with his swept-back hair and luxurious mustache, looked as though he would be more at home in the Metropolitan Opera House than in the Casa Lido. And he did occasionally break into arias in the kitchen. When readers asked me if any real person had inspired my fictional detective, I always lied and said no. But there was more than a little Massimo Fabri in Bernardo Vitali. “Listen, Massi.” I looked around to make sure my grandmother was nowhere in sight, but lowered my voice anyway. She had ears like a bat's. “I'm trying to get Nonna to teach me to cook.”

“Ha!” he said. “Good luck with that, little one.” He set his toque on his head and rubbed his hands together. “And . . . Tim, he is in the kitchen?” He looked away from me as he asked the question; he, like the rest of the staff, as well as most of Oceanside Park, knew our history.

“Yes, he is.” I dropped my voice. “And you can say his name. It's okay.”

“Good.” He patted my shoulder. “Look. Here is another of your old friends.”

“
Hola
, Nando!” I said. “It's so nice to see you.” His bright gap-toothed grin and round face reminded me of a cheerful jack-o'-lantern. He stuck out a plump hand and gave me his usual greeting. “Hello, Miss Victor.” Despite years of trying, I could never get Nando to drop the “miss” or add the feminine ending to my name.

Nando Perez hailed from Ecuador and had worked here for nearly half his life, starting as a busboy and moving up to line cook. He spoke to my grandmother in Spanish and she responded in Italian, a communication style that confused the rest of us but worked for them. As always, Nando's glistening black hair was ponytailed and braided, the top of his head covered by a hairnet. I don't know whether he wore the net for reasons of health or beauty, but in fifteen years, I'd never seen him without it.

My parents and grandmother came in right behind Nando. My dad headed to the bar to set up, and my mom took her place behind the reservation desk.

“So, honey,” Mom said. “How was your first day back?”

“Uh, good. Got all the napkins ironed and the setups made.” I risked a look at my grandmother's impassive face. “Now all I have to do is plant a dozen tomato flats.”

“That's nice,” my mom said vaguely, her nose in the black reservations book.

“I have something for you, Victoria,” my grandmother said, handing me a rusted garden spade that was probably older than she was. “You still have a couple hours of light.”

“Thanks, Nonna.” I held up the dirty tool. “I'll get right on it.”

Feeling very much like a child sent off to bed while the grown-ups partied, I headed out the back door toward the garden. My mood wasn't improved by the sight of the gold Escalade still occupying Lori's space in the employee lot. What was Parisi's car doing here? He'd left well over an hour ago. “You'd better come back and get this car, buddy,” I grumbled. “Or I'm calling my brother to come and put a big fat ticket on it.”

As I stood and surveyed the garden plot, I caught a foul smell on the breeze.
Ugh
, I thought.
Nonna's got a heavy hand with the fertilizer.
Knowing I couldn't put it off one minute more, I sighed and dropped to my knees, dug into the soft soil, and settled the first plant into its bed. Only 143 to go.

I had nearly a whole row planted when I spotted something in the grass near the shed. I stood up, my knees stiff, and took a few steps toward the object. When I bent my head for a better look, goose bumps prickled up and down my bare arms. It was a shoe—a two-toned black-and-cordovan oxford that had no business being in my grandmother's garden. My feet, of their own accord and certainly without my permission, carried me around the corner of the shed. I pressed my hand against the wall to steady myself and looked down at a sight that I had only ever seen in my fevered imagination.

But this was real. And that smell wasn't fertilizer. There on the ground, his arms and legs splayed out and his face in a puddle of vomit, lay Gio Parisi.

W
hy couldn't I move? Why couldn't I speak? A voice, calm and rational, was saying, “Call nine-one-one. You
need
to call nine-one-one.” My mouth dry, I opened it to answer, only to realize the voice was in my head. Holding my breath against the odor, I dropped to my wobbly knees. Careful not to disturb anything (I had learned at least that much in eight years), I reached out to touch Parisi's wrist, but my hand froze in midair.
He might need help
, the calm voice said.
You have to check and see
. I swallowed, breathing hard through my nose, and closed my fingers around the cold skin. But Gio Parisi was beyond any help I could give him. Still shaky, I fell backward in the grass, but pushed myself to my feet. I dug my hand into the pocket of my jeans for a phone that wasn't there.

I jerked my head up at a sudden rustling in the grass, expecting—no, willing—my fictional detective to show up. I desperately wanted Bernardo Vitali, jauntily arrayed in a summer linen suit and straw hat, his notepad and fountain pen in hand, to take over the case so I could run the hell back to Manhattan. But it was only Tim, rounding the corner from the other side of the lot, the empty compost bucket in his hand. When he saw my face, he dropped the bucket and ran toward me.

“What's the matter, Vic? What's wrong?”

I pointed, still unable to utter a word. Tim looked down at the spectacle behind the shed, his face swiftly draining of color. He gripped my arm with a clammy hand. And then he did something I'd been waiting half my life to see: He dropped into a dead swoon at my feet.

•   •   •

The scene that followed was surreal, mostly because I had written it so many times. In some ways, it felt as though I were still writing it. We were herded into the restaurant so it could be closed off; an Oceanside officer stood guard in the parking lot, carrying out the first rule at the scene of a suspicious death: nobody in, nobody out. Every vehicle in the lot, including Parisi's new Escalade and my old Schwinn, had to be accounted for. All our statements had to be taken. And, of course, the press had to be kept at bay.

In the dining room, my family and I, Lori, Cal, and Tim were all crowded around one table. “Why? Why,” Nonna asked, wringing her hands, “did he have to pick
here
to die?”

“Tuesdays are slow anyway, Ma,” my dad said, in a masterpiece of understatement. “Thank God nobody was in the dining room.”

My mom frowned. “No matter how we may have felt about him, or how this affects our business, a man is dead out there.”

He certainly was. I took a huge gulp of the wine in front of me, catching Cal's eye over the top of my glass. When I was outside with Tim in a crumpled heap next to me, I finally found my voice. Cal was the one who came running. He got Tim back on his feet and put a strong arm around each of us to get us back inside. He called 911 and then Danny, who materialized in what seemed like seconds.

Cal's expression now was warm and concerned; he slid his whiskey glass toward me. “Try a sip of this,
cher.
Good for what ails ya.”

I held up my hand. “That's okay, but thanks. For everything, by the way.” I smiled, and caught Tim scowling at us. “Are you feeling any better?” I asked him.

“I'm fine.” Tim looked down at his glass; he was the only one drinking water. “It was just the shock of seeing him out there like that.” He ran his hands through his thick curls, unwilling to meet our eyes.

Lori reached over and patted his arm. “Don't you worry, hon. We understand.”

“Yeah, man. No worries,” Cal said in a hearty just-us-buddies tone. “Coulda happened to anybody.”
Except me, of course
,
said the look on his face.

We all jumped at the sound of the door opening, and I was relieved to see my brother. He sat down, covering my hand with his. “You okay?”

I nodded. “Don't they need you out there?”

“I can't be part of this investigation—conflict of interest. Strictly speaking, I shouldn't even be here.” He smiled faintly, but I knew my brother. He wasn't happy. “Anyway, I think this might be one for the county prosecutor.”

I didn't like the sound of that. “What's going on out there?”

“The county coroner's office just picked him up.”

My grandmother was the only one honest enough—or cold-blooded enough—to voice what all of us were thinking. “Good,” she said. “The sooner he's off this property, the better.”

“Listen, guys.” Dan looked around the table. “We need to be prepared for the possibility this wasn't a simple heart attack.”

“Danny, lots of people having heart attacks vomit, if that's what you're thinking,” I said. “I've researched it. And he was definitely sweaty and clammy looking before he left.”

“But, Vic,” Lori said, “he didn't look like he had chest pain or anything. I mean, he didn't mention it.”

I shrugged. “Why would he? He probably just thought it was indigestion or something.”

My mother's eyes widened. “You don't think it was a food allergy?”

“I don't think so, Mom.” I shook my head. “He was so particular about what he ordered. If he had a food allergy, I think he would have made that loud and clear.”

“Was the chicken fresh?” Cal asked, looking straight at Tim.

“What the hell?” Tim said. “Of course it was fresh. And that produce was clean.” He glared at Cal. “Anyway, people don't drop dead of salmonella in minutes, Lockhart.”

“Easy there, guys,” Danny said. “I'm only saying that we don't know what killed him. And if it wasn't a heart attack, this could have some real repercussions for the restaurant.”

My mother closed her eyes and rubbed her temples, as though her head hurt. “The season's about to start. If people think he died because of something he ate here—”

“Don't think that way, babe.” My father picked up her hand and kissed it. “We'll be fine.”

I glanced over at Danny, and I knew we were thinking the same thing: Our gambler father was a big believer in long shots. “Hey, Dan? Is the press out there yet?”

He shook his head. “But it's only a matter of time. The guy's high profile.”

“Oh God.” My mother held her head and moaned. “I didn't even think about reporters.”

But I had. Including all that lovely footage they already had of the rally, in which both my parents and several townsfolk had publicly excoriated the dead man. My mother wasn't the only one with a headache. This could become a circus, with the Rienzi family in the center ring.

Nonna rapped on the table. “Nicolina! Get hold of yourself.
Daniele
will keep the reporters away. We will ride this out like a storm. In the meantime, we do what we always do—prepare for the season ahead.”

I wondered, absurdly, if that included planting the rest of the tomatoes. I wasn't sure I could face that back garden again.

My head jerked up at the sound of a chair scraping across the floor. My brother stood with his hands on the back of the chair, his face serious. “I'm gonna head out there and see how long it will be before you can all go home. It shouldn't be much longer.”

When we were finally allowed to leave, I declined all offers of rides. Instead, I biked along the empty boardwalk, breathing in the cool sea air and listening to the sound of the waves. The same words played over and over in my head:
It had to be a heart attack. It had to be a heart attack.

By the time I reached the cottage, I had myself convinced. Gio Parisi had died of natural causes. Of that, I was certain. But as my own detective might have reminded me, fate usually had plans for those who were sure.