Murder and Marinara (7 page)

“Oh my God!” Sofia's voice rose to a squeal. “It's Nina LaGuardia!”

“Will you keep your voice down?” I shoved my face further into the blinds, the metal edges digging sharply into my nose. “Who's Nina LaGuardia?”

“God, Vic, you live under a rock. She's the new Channel Ten anchor.” Sofia lifted the blind a fraction. “Oooh, I love her dress.”

“Will you forget the dress?” I hissed. “What is she saying?”

She shook her head. “I can't make it out. But it looks like she's practicing. She's really pretty in person.”

My knees were getting numb and my face was marked with dirt from the window. I turned around to sit with my back against the wall and rubbed my sore nose. “There's got to be some way to make them leave.”

She shot me a sly, sideways glance. “We could call Danny.”

“We could. But then he'd have to meet the lovely Nina. And for all you know, she might have a weakness for men in uniform.”

“Never mind.” She scrambled to her feet. “Let's just sneak out the back door.”

I stood up and groaned, my calves tight from the unaccustomed biking. “Well, I'm gonna jump in the shower.”

“Why? What are you doing?” She looked at me as I trudged up the stairs.

I stopped with my hand on the rail and turned back to look at her. “What do you think? I'm getting ready for my close-up.”

A
fter managing to escape the zombies in one piece, I jumped into my car and headed into town. It was a gray day, and the low clouds threatened rain. The streets were quiet after yesterday's crowds. I pulled into the restaurant with trepidation. My hands shook a little as I got out of the car, and I hesitated in front of the big wooden doors.
I can turn around now
.
I can be back on the Parkway in fifteen minutes.
But could I really leave my family at the mercy of Nina LaGuardia and the rest of the media? That van would likely end up here sooner or later, and how would that affect our business? Besides that, my curiosity was getting the better of me—what
had
happened to Gio Parisi?

When I stepped inside the restaurant, something felt off. It was just too quiet. Instead of the usual bustle of lunch prep—the clank of pots, the whoosh of the swinging kitchen doors, the calls of the deliverymen, there was only silence.

“Tim? Massimo? Anybody here?”

“Just me.” Tim came through the kitchen doors, wiping his hands on a towel tucked into his apron. One dark curl had escaped from his bandanna; his jacket sleeves were rolled up to reveal his forearms—as Tim's body parts go, two of my all-time faves—and I took a nice cleansing breath. Luckily, the sight of his orange kitchen clogs brought me to my senses.

“Where is everybody? Are you doing lunch all by yourself?”

“Looks like it.” He gestured toward my mother's precious black book. “We had a bunch of cancellations, so I'm just doing the minimum.”

“Oh God. Is it happening already?”

“I guess so. I had Mr. B bring me about half the regular produce, and the butcher's been here. I mean, we needed stuff because the cops cleaned us out.” He shrugged. “I just don't know how much of it we'll use.”

I glanced toward the bar. “Is Cal in today?”

“I don't keep tabs on Lockhart. Anyway, the guy keeps whatever hours he wants. He's been and gone already this morning.”

“Well, he can't work when we have customers, right? So that leaves Mondays, early mornings, and the gap between lunch and dinner service.” As I spoke, I flashed back to the day before; Cal was in the restaurant while Parisi ate, and I remembered Tim's words:
Keep Lockhart out of my kitchen.
Why would Cal have been in the kitchen at all? And was he anywhere near the dead producer's plate?
Cut it out, Vic
, I told myself.
Yesterday you were convinced it was a heart attack, and today you're lining up the suspects.

Tim's expression hardened as I talked about Cal, so I thought it prudent to change the subject. “Listen, can I do anything? Silver setups? Coffee station?”

“Done and done,” he said as he headed back to the kitchen, “unless you want to give Lori a call and tell her not to come in until later.” He grinned at me over his shoulder. “I think even you can handle today's lunch rush.”

And he was right. The “lunch rush” consisted of one elderly couple who ate Tim's pasta special (rigatoni with sausage, spinach, and fresh ricotta) with relish, apparently unaware of the previous day's happenings at the Casa Lido. They had probably never had such service in their lives; I kept their water glasses full, brought their food promptly, and even gave them a cannoli and two coffees on the house.

After they left, I sank into one of the dining room chairs, one eye on the front window in case that News Ten van should roll up to the door. But the only vehicle that arrived was my dad's Lexus, and I steeled myself for Nonna's reaction to an empty dining room at the height of lunch hour.

She stood inside the door, hands on her hips, her face stern. “Victoria, where are all the customers?”

“Oh, I don't know, Nonna. Maybe they've been kidnapped. Or they're hiding from us.” I lifted the corner of one of the tablecloths. “Nope, no customers under there.” I spread my palms out. “Where do you think they are? They're too afraid to eat here.”

“We don't need your sarcasm, young lady,” my mom said, and then opened the reservation book. Her eyes widened, and she slammed it shut. At that, my father looked around at the women in his life and, without a word, beat a hasty retreat to the bar. My grandmother held out one iron hand. “Nicolina, the book please.”

My mother and I looked at each other guiltily. “We did have one table of two,” I said, trying not to sound sulky.

Nonna didn't answer. She closed the book slowly and adjusted her glasses. “I notice we have some cancellations.”

“A few.” As my bravado evaporated, I squeaked like a seventh grader.

“More than a few.” She handed the book back to my mom.

“Now, Mama,” my mom said, “we'll weather this. Once they know how Mr. Parisi”—she paused—“um, expired, people will realize that it had nothing to do with the restaurant.”

We hope,
I thought, looking at my mother's worried face and my grandmother's stern one.

“But the season starts in less than two weeks!” Nonna's voice echoed across the empty dining room.

“We know, Nonna. We know.” I patted her arm. “Listen, Danny said the autopsy results are coming soon.”

She made a grunting sound either of skepticism or dismissal, or both, and I took the hint. I had also neglected to mention that toxicology results could take weeks. I sneaked into the kitchen and helped myself to a small portion of Tim's pasta special while I mulled over our predicament.

Any chef, waitress, hostess, or busboy will tell you that there is nothing slower than a slow night in a restaurant. Massimo, Tim, and Nando ended up cleaning the refrigerator and freezer, while Lori and I wiped every surface in sight. When I heard the rumble of thunder in the distance, I knew our fate was sealed; if not the corpse, the rain would keep people away. We ended up with only two customers, and when one of them turned out to be a reporter for the
Oceanside Chronicle
, our town's weekly rag, Nonna's response wasn't pretty.

As the evening wore on with nothing to do, the men drifted from the kitchen to the bar. I was about to join them when I saw my dad, Tim, Massimo, and Cal crowded around a laptop screen. The Casa Lido bar did not have a television, so I assumed they were watching a baseball game. Until I heard a female voice coming from the screen.

“We're here today outside the cottage where mystery writer Vick Reed, aka Victoria Rienzi, is on an apparent writer's retreat . . .”

Oh God
. Nina's voice chirped on. “Ms. Reed, what can you tell us about the real-life mystery that's unfolding right here in your hometown? Can you confirm that producer Gio Parisi was found dead behind your family's restaurant?”

“Pause it right there,” Massimo said. “Ho, look at her. Like a frightened horse!”

I stood behind them, straining to see the small screen. And there I was, looking just as Massimo had described me, rearing back from the microphone with my eyes rolled back until the whites showed, whinnying my “no comment” at the camera. I stared at my pale face, frozen by the pause button. My quick dabs of blush and lip gloss were no match for Nina's artfully made-up face, and the contrast was so painful I winced.

“Play 'er again,” Cal said, and Tim and my dad chuckled.

“I'm glad you're finding this funny,” I said.

Cal swung around on the barstool. “Lord, girl, you give a man a heart attack, sneakin' up on him like that.” He patted his chest, and my eyes strayed to his broad hand, work worn and a bit beat-up. I hadn't seen many hands like that in Manhattan.

“You might want to watch your choice of words there, ace,” I said. “What are you still doing here, anyway?”

He lifted his beer in a toast. “Just having a friendly drink, ma'am.”

My dad pointed to a spot of bare wood among the scrollwork on the bar. “Look at the work he's done here, hon. He already stripped this whole section.”

“That ‘whole' section, huh?” I shook my head. “At this rate, we will no longer be able to afford you, Mr. Lockhart.” I gestured toward the empty dining room. “And unless business picks up, we won't even be able to pay the electric bill.”

“C'mon, baby, things aren't that bad,” my dad said.

“Yes, they are, Daddy.” I swept my hand across the empty dining room. “Do you see any full tables? In fact, do you see anyone at all?”

“The night is young, hon.” So said my father, player of long shots.

When the door finally opened again around nine, I turned hopefully, but it was only Danny, wearing street clothes damp from the rain. But even off duty, Danny was never off the job. He flashed me a look as he came in; I sent him a silent question back, and he shook his head slightly. Did the headshake mean,
No, the autopsy results aren't in yet
, or,
They're in, but don't ask me about them
?

“Somethin' smells good,” he said, giving me a quick kiss. “And I haven't eaten.”

I was about to tell him there was nothing cooking when the scent of sautéed onions wafted my way. Massimo emerged with a large black skillet, Nando behind him with a basket of bread.

“Massimo, is that a frittata?” I looked at the Italian version of comfort food, a glorious golden omelet made with greens, cheese, herbs, and bread crumbs.

“
Sì, cara
. I make it with the arugula and fontina cheese. And we need to eat, do we not?” He shrugged. “And as we have no customers at the moment . . .”

“And I don't think we're likely to have any.”

Tim brought over plates and silverware while Massimo cut the frittata into wedges. We all squeezed around one table, passing the bread basket, suddenly aware of how late it was. As I was about to take my first bite, I had a discomfiting thought.

“This arugula is from the stuff Mr. Biaggio delivered, right?” I asked. All around me, forks were frozen in midair, poised inches from open lips.

“I'm not sure,
cara
,” Massimo said, “but this was from a bag in the 'frigerator.”

“From when?” Danny asked, still holding his fork aloft.

“By all the saints!” Nonna said. “It's a new bunch. The police took the rest last night.” She gestured with closed fingers in the familiar Italian manner. “I ate a salad from this today. What's wrong with all of you?”

“We're just a little jumpy, Nonna.” Danny took a healthy bite of his frittata; fueled by both hunger and relief, the rest of us did the same.

As we ate in silence, I looked around the table at the people I'd be working so closely with over the next year—my family, the Casa Lido staffers, Tim, and finally Cal. Except for Cal, I knew them as well as I knew myself. My brother's suggestion that there might be more to Parisi's death had unsettled us to the point where we were afraid to eat. But if it wasn't a heart attack, what was it? I knew that a reaction to the food was a remote possibility, but what if someone had tampered with his meal?

My eyes rested on each of the faces around me. The only people in the Casa Lido yesterday while Parisi ate were Tim, Cal, and Lori. I would vouch for Tim and Lori any day, but what about Cal? I watched him fold his egg into a slice of bread, taking careful, slow bites, eating just like he talked and worked. What did we really know about this guy? I shook my head and forked the last piece of egg from my plate, savoring the bitter taste of the greens. I stopped in midswallow.
The greens
. Mr. Biaggio had come into the kitchen with a delivery. He was a protester. He made no bones about his antipathy to Parisi and his show. His face red and angry, he had compared Parisi to garbage to be thrown away. . . .
Stop it, Vic.
Do you really think the chubby little produce man is a murderer? My writer's imagination was clearly getting the best of me. And then Danny, who was sitting to my right, slid a piece of paper under my plate. On it was one word. I crushed the paper in my hand and jumped to my feet.

“Hey, Dan? Could you help me with something out back?”

“Sure thing, sis.”

I hurried down the narrow hallway, my brother close behind me. As we stepped out the back doors, the sensor light illuminated the dark outline of the shed. The rain had stopped, leaving us in a chilly mist, and I shivered, both from cold and the memory of my last trip out here. I held up the crumpled paper. “Your handwriting sucks, but this says ‘petechiae,' right?”

He nodded, his face grim. “So you know what that means.”

“It means there were broken blood vessels in his eyes. And that maybe he didn't die of natural causes.”

“There's more, sis. Tomorrow morning the county prosecutor's going on record with the press that it's a suspicious death.”

“Oh no—”

“What are you two whispering about?” The voice that sliced through the darkness was as sharp as aged cheese.

I jumped, slapping my hand against my chest. “Geez, Nonna. You scared me to death. Danny's just looking at my car.”

“Nonsense. Your car is on the other side of the lot. And I know exactly what you two are talking about.”

“She don't miss a thing,” Danny muttered.

Nonna pretended not to hear him and instead reached out and patted my arm. “Victoria, dear, you no longer have to worry about the tomatoes.”

Touched by her concern, I smiled. “Thanks, Nonna.” But that stone face never cracked. She tilted her head, her eyes calculating and just a bit scary behind her bifocals. “No, you need not worry about the garden. In fact, you don't have to worry about the restaurant at all for a while.”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “Why?”

Her lips curled in what might have been a smile or a snarl. “Because I have another job for you. One you are well suited for.” She jerked her chin toward the shadowy building behind us and pointed. “You're gonna to find out who killed that rich
cafone
and dumped him behind my shed.”