Murder and Marinara (6 page)

I
sabella clutched
pulled
her tattered shawl closely around—

No.

Isabella clutched
at the corners of
her shabby wool shawl—

God, no.

Isabella pulled the frayed wool shawl closely around herself. Chilled by the November wind, she—

She . . . she what? I took another slug of my coffee—like most of my old boyfriends, it was strong, dark, Italian, and slightly bitter—and stared at the blinking cursor on my screen. Who was I kidding? After yesterday's drama, did I really think I'd get any work done today? I put my head down on the desk, trying to ignore the slide show in my head that kept showing the same nightmarish image, Parisi facedown in my grandmother's tomato garden. When my cell phone vibrated, I grabbed it like a lifeline.

“Vic, what the hell's going on down there?” Behind the concern in Josh's voice, a different emotion was hiding, one that sounded suspiciously like excitement.

“Listen, it's not that big a deal, really,” I lied. “Some guy had a heart attack out behind the restaurant.”

“‘Some guy'? You're kidding me, right? Gio Parisi is one of the biggest producers in reality show television. Mindy's been glued to the TV since last night.”

Josh's wife was a big fan of RealTV. “Wait—it hit the networks?”

“Where've
you
been?”

Right in the middle of this nightmare. Thank you
. “There's no TV in the cottage.”

“But it's all over the net.”

“I'm trying to stay
off
the Internet. I'm here to work, remember?” I didn't mention that the last thing I wanted to do was see my family all over the news. I sighed. “Not that I'm getting anything done.”

Ignoring my last remark, Josh went on. “They're calling it foul play, you know.” His voice dropped. “And they're saying you found him.”

I stared at the phone in my hand, then at my coffee cup, then at my screen, then out my window at the ocean.
Remember this moment, Vic
, I told myself,
because this is when it all goes south.
“Yes, Josh, I found him. But there hasn't even been an autopsy yet.”

“There's a lotta chatter on the Net about it.”

“I'm sure there is, but . . .”

“So I guess you haven't seen your sales numbers.” Josh's jump to this particular topic left me confused. In a mental scurry to keep up, I took another swig of coffee.

“What are you talking about?” I glanced out the side window of the cottage, where a large white shape caught the corner of my eye. Plastering the phone to my ear, I hurried down the narrow stairs to the first floor, the coffee in my empty stomach rolling like a wave.

“Don't you get it, Vic? You're a mystery author, in the middle of a real-life mystery. Check out Amazon.
Molto Murder
's on a steep climb, with
Ciao, My Darling
not far behind it. And the preorders for
Murder Della Casa
are through the roof. Bernardo just got a new lease on life!”

“Wow. I mean, that's great and all, but . . .” Now at the front window, I peeked through the old-fashioned metal blinds. The white shape had strange equipment attached to the top of it, and a big blue number 10 painted on its side. I turned quickly, flattening my back against my door.

“Listen,” I said in a whisper, “much as I'd like to discuss my book sales with you right now, I have a little issue that needs my attention. The Channel Ten news van is parked in front of my house.”

“That's awesome!” His voice was so loud, I was convinced he could be heard outside.

“Josh, you're a ghoul. You know that?” Still whispering, I made a dash for the staircase at the moment the first knock sounded. “I need to go. And please—if anyone calls you for a comment, you have none. Okay?”

“Okay,” he said. “But you'd better keep me in the loop.”

“I will, but I've gotta go.”

The knocking was growing louder and more persistent, accompanied by calls of “Ms. Reed! Ms. Reed!”

I stood in the middle of my small bedroom, still clutching the phone, wondering if I had enough food in the house to last me through the media onslaught. I was suddenly in the middle of a horror movie, the last human alive, with bloodthirsty zombies circling my door.

Just then a shrill voice cut through the muffled tones of the gathering hordes. “Ya got nothin' better to do than hang around here? Ms. Reed has no comment, and neither do I. So why don't you just take your nosy butts off this property before I call my highly placed contact in the police department?”

I couldn't help grinning as my hero arrived—Sofia Delmonico, who also happened to be my landlord and erstwhile sister-in-law. I pulled my bedroom door closed and sat on the bed, waiting until I heard the front door slam.

“You can come out, Vic,” she called. “It's only me.”

I stuck my head out the bedroom door, and a welcome sight met my eyes—Sofia at the bottom of the stairs holding two coffees and a white bakery bag marked in familiar red letters. “Oh my God,” I said. “Are they doughnuts from the Snack Shack?”

“Yes, but you don't get any until you tell me what happened in that restaurant.” She shook the bag. “Are you coming down or am I coming up?”

“I'll come down.” It was no surprise that Sofia was here for every detail, gory or otherwise, of yesterday's incident. And any information I didn't offer willingly, she'd worm out of me anyway. She beckoned again from the bottom of the stairs, this time using the coffee as bait. No match for her or the cinnamon doughnuts, I crept down the stairs.

“It is
so
good to see you.” I threw my arms around her skinny-but-curvy five-foot-two frame. “And you look awesome, as usual.” Sofia was a classic Italian girl, olive-skinned and dark-eyed with a shiny waterfall of black hair. “I can't believe you got through that mess out there,” I said.

“Please,” she said. “How long have you known me?”

“Since you used to climb trees to sneak peeks at my brother. Sit.” In the kitchen, I grabbed napkins and two mismatching plates from the cabinet. Once I took a bite of warm cinnamon-sugar doughnut, I nearly forgot about the media zombies lying in wait outside. “I'm gonna be two hundred pounds before I leave here.”

“Quit moaning and talk to me, SIL,” Sofia said, using our shorthand for “sister-in-law.” She cut her doughnut into quarters, of which she would allow herself exactly one, having already eaten her high-protein, high-fiber breakfast. As a dance teacher, she took great care of herself, and it showed. She took a sip of her unsweetened black coffee and raised her eyes expectantly. “Tell me.”

“I assume you're talking about the dead guy in the tomato garden?” I tried to sound flip but didn't quite carry it off.

“He's not just any dead guy—he's Gio Parisi.” She paused. “Well, he
was
, anyway.” She pointed to the front door of the cottage. “He's the reason that van's out there.”

I dropped my head in my hand. “Don't remind me.”

Sofia leaned forward in her chair. “Is it true you found him?”

“Unfortunately.” I described the scene as though it came from a book, and not my recent memory, but I couldn't help a little shudder as I remembered wrapping my fingers around his cold wrist.

“That sounds awful,” Sofia said. “So what's next?”

“They're doing an autopsy and probably a tox screen. They took a whole bunch of food and trash from the kitchen. It looks like a heart attack. And that's the result we're all praying for.”

“You don't think—” Sofia began.

“I don't know what to think. All I know is that he had lunch at the restaurant and died about an hour later.”

She shook her head. “Not good.”

“That's putting it mildly. Especially since there's a well-documented protest that happened outside the Casa Lido this afternoon.”

“I forgot about that.” Her face brightened. “Guess that solves the problem of them filming here.”

“Don't even say it!” I gestured toward the windows. “They'd have a field day with that. And at some point, I'm gonna have to deal with them.” I looked around the cozy cottage, with its musty seashore smell and mismatching furniture, and sighed. “This was such a perfect place for me to work, too.”

“What do you mean ‘was'? You're here for a year. I've got your name on a lease.” She squeezed my hand. “Don't worry. This will all blow over and you'll write your book. What's it about, anyway?”

As I told her, I watched her bright eyes grow dim. “That sounds really . . . interesting.”

“Ah, the adjective every writer wants to hear. Thanks, Sofe.”

“I'm sorry, but I think you should write a romance. A really hot one, like Nora Roberts.”

I couldn't help laughing. “I'm no Nora Roberts.”

“At least give Bernardo a girlfriend.” She paused. “Or a boyfriend, I don't care. Give him somethin', will ya?”

“It's hard for me to imagine Bernardo with a sex life.” I wrinkled my nose. “Come to think of it, I don't
want
to imagine Bernardo with a sex life.”

She looked at me sideways and lifted one eyebrow. “Speaking of romance—how's Not So Tiny Tim?”

“Funny. Did you think that one up yourself?” I wiped the sugar from my fingers and contemplated another doughnut.

“Actually, you came up with it.”

“I guess I did. It all feels like a million years ago now. And yesterday.” I pushed the plate of doughnuts away and concentrated on the coffee instead. I would need lots of caffeine to get through today.

“I know what you mean. Was it hard to see him again?”

“I'm over Tim, Sofia.”

She pointed to my neck. “Right. And that's why you're still wearing the necklace he had made for you.”

“I like it, okay?” I looked into her dark eyes. “Yes, it's hard to be around him. But I don't have to tell you. When
is
the last time you talked to your ‘highly placed contact in the police department'?”

“Please.” She waved her hand. “Your brother's a pain in my ass.”

“But you love him, right?”

“Somethin' awful.” she said with a sigh. “Hey, does he know I'm renting you the cottage?”

“I haven't mentioned it, but I know he wouldn't care. He knows we're close.”

At this, Sofia broke into a passable imitation of my brother and jabbed her finger at me for emphasis. “‘You two, you're thick as thieves.'” She broke off abruptly, her grin fading. “God, I miss him.”

“He misses you.”

She pressed her hand against her chest. “It feels like my heart is bruised.”

“Because it is. And it's the same for him,” I said quietly. “Don't you want to work things out?”

“You know I do!” She shook her head. “He's so stubborn. He won't give an inch.”

“Is it so important to you to enter the police academy? To give up the dance studio and everything you've worked for? To put this kind of a strain on your marriage?”

Her lips tightened. “I guess it's natural that you'd be on his side.”

“C'mon, Sofia, be fair. Yes, he's my brother, but I love both of you. And I want the best for both of you.” I shook my head. “It's hard for me to understand.”

“What's so hard? I want a career in law enforcement, and your brother won't accept my choice.”

“You know why. It's not just Danny being macho—”

“Of course it is.”

“He's worried about you. He knows the risks that cops take, even in small towns. He doesn't want anything to happen to you.”

“Don't you think I worry about
him
on the job? But I've been training on my own, going to karate class every week. And I'm smart; I can take care of myself.”

“I'm not diminishing that. But there's more to it. You've got a nice little business in town. Do you really want to risk that for this dream of being a cop?”

Sophia's eyes narrowed. “You've got a nice little mystery series going that sells lots of books. But you're taking a risk for a dream. Why shouldn't I?”

“Got me there, SIL,” I said. “We're probably both crazy.” I drained the rest of my coffee and strained to listen. Above the chatter outside, I could hear a lone female voice speaking into a microphone. “Crap, I think they started filming.”

Sofia frowned. “What is there to film? Your empty front yard?”

“I don't know. Background stuff, maybe?” I craned my neck to peer into the living room. “I wish I knew what was going on out there.”

She stood up. “Let's find out.”

“Are you crazy? I'm not going out there now.”

“Who said anything about going out?” Sofia crept out to the living room, and dropping to her hands and knees as quietly as a cat, she slinked her way along the floor. If she had a tail, it would be twitching. She looked back at me over her shoulder. “Well, what are you waiting for? C'mon.”

Knees creaking, I bent down to join her on the floor, my canine posture a sharp contrast to her feline grace. I wrinkled my nose. “Eww. This rug needs shampooing.”

“Tell it to the landlord.” Sofia had reached one of the two front windows; she poked her nose through the slats, her chin resting on the sill.

“Wanna tell me again why I'm crawling on a stinky rug with my butt up in the air?”

“Quit complaining. It's probably the most fun you've had in weeks.”

While I pondered the truth of this statement, I reached for the sill to pull myself up. From my vantage point, I could make out only the van and a couple of guys moving some big cords. “What do you see?” I whispered.