A Dish Best Served Cold: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (Italian Kitchen Mystery, An) (13 page)

O
n the ride home, Sofia and I debriefed, pooling our knowledge of Leo Barone and Riese’s involvement with him. We had spent another hour in the library searching him out, but the trail went cold with Riese’s conviction.

“What do you think happened to Robert Riese?” I asked as we headed north on the highway.

“I think he probably died in prison. Don’t you? There must be some way we can get ahold of those records. Was he ever up for parole, for example?”

“What kind of prisoner was he?” I added. “And did he kick his drug habit?” I stared at the strained face in the grainy copy I’d made of the article. He looked ill, as though he’d lived a dissipated life. But he didn’t look dangerous. I studied the picture a little longer before I had a thought. “Hey, Sofe?” I asked. “Have you ever heard of Richard the Third?”

“I think so. Isn’t he that English king they dug up in a parking lot in London? I saw a
National Geographic
special about it.” She frowned. “What does he have to do with your missing great-uncle?”

“Their faces. For years people believed that Richard the Third had murdered his little nephews so he could gain the throne. But when you look at his likeness, he just doesn’t look like a murderer.” I held up the clipping. “And neither does Robert Riese. You know, Bernardo is a good reader of faces. We could use him right now.”

Sofia raised an eyebrow. “Hate to break it to ya, Vic, but Bernardo the Annoying Detective doesn’t exist outside your imagination.”

“I wonder . . .”

“You wonder what?”

“Well, did Riese really do it? Murder the Mancini guy, I mean?”

“He was convicted, wasn’t he? But you think he was framed by Barone, don’t you? And maybe Pete knew that from his brother and was holding it over Richard Barone’s head?”

“I don’t know what to think.” I looked out my side window and watched the mile markers roll by, my mood as dark as the gray sky. The rain had stopped, but it was damp and chilly, and I didn’t much relish the thought of another night in my cottage with only flashlights and candles. I let out a loud sigh. “Even if he
was
framed, how would we know after all these years? I’m beginning to think we should just drop this whole thing.”

“If nothing else, Vic, don’t you want to know if Riese is really your great-uncle?”

“Sure, but how do we confirm it? Dig him up and test his DNA?”

“There’s a thought,” Sofia said. “I wonder how hard it is to get an exhumation order.”

“Please. Let’s not get carried away, okay? Hey, what were the names of the Barone cronies again?”

“Bellafante and Domenica. But they’ve got to be dead by now.”

“True. But maybe there are relatives—kids or grandkids who know something about their pasts. It’s worth a try.” I pulled my notebook from my purse and began writing. “Barone’s enemy was named Caprio, right?”

“That was the other crime family, yeah.” She glanced over at me as we slowed for a toll. “None of those names are that common; it might not be hard to find somebody in one of those families who knows something. In the meantime, I’ll work on Danny and see if he can get hold of those old prison records. Is it okay with you if I tell him what we found out today?”

“Please do. I hate keeping stuff from him. But more than that, we need his help. Without him, we’ll never find out what happened to Robert Riese.”

*   *   *

After a stop at a Chinese restaurant that still had power, I arrived at my cottage clutching my notes, my newspaper clipping, and a pint of General Tso’s chicken. I sat out on my deck in the fading light of dusk, shivering in my old Rutgers sweatshirt. Between bites of chicken and red pepper, I mulled over what we knew so far. Most of it was supposition—what did I really have to go on beyond the words of an elderly alcoholic and a photo from the 1940s? I swallowed the last of my chicken, trying to sort out the different threads that ran through a story that started long before I was born. Essentially, there were two mysteries to solve: Was Robert Riese really Zio Roberto? And was Stinky Pete a true threat to someone or just an old man who wanted some attention? Once I had answers to those two questions, then I could investigate the connection between them. If Pete’s death had been murder, the motive might lie in the past. Or it might not.

But there
was
somebody who might be able answer at least one of those questions. I took out my phone and made a call.

*   *   *

“I appreciate your taking the time to see me, Father Tom.”

“It’s delightful to see you, Victoria.” He raised a thick eyebrow. “In fact, I’d like to see more of you on Sundays.”

His tone was kind, and he was smiling, but I still squirmed a little in my seat in the rectory office. “I tend to go to Saturday evening Mass. Well, when I
do
go,” I added hastily.
Great, Vic, lying to a priest. There’s probably a special section of hell reserved just for you.
“Did you enjoy the party Friday night?” I asked, desperate to move the conversation away from my church attendance.

He nodded. “I did. And I was gratified to see that my special fresh sauce was on the menu. I picked up the recipe on a trip to Sicily.”

“That was your recipe? You must rate high with Nonna. It was delicious, by the way—the arugula gives it a nice bite.” I hesitated. “But much as I enjoy chatting about food, I’m here for a different reason. I’d like to talk to you about Pete.”

His face was unsurprised, perhaps because he’d heard of my recent adventures in amateur detection. “Of course,” he said. “I’ll help in any way I can. I’m hoping to have a memorial for him as soon as they release the body.” He shook his head. “Pietro was a bit of a lost soul. And sadly, his death reflects his life.”

I leaned forward in my chair. “Father, do you believe Pete’s death was an accident?”

“I’m not sure what I believe, to tell you the truth. I know he was troubled; that’s partly why he turned to drink.” He looked steadily at me. “Why do you ask, Victoria?”

“Because several weeks ago he told me he ‘knew things.’ That he had stories to tell me for my mysteries. And I wonder if something he knew might have been a threat to someone.”

Father Tom’s expression didn’t change. “I can’t really speak to that,” he said.

“But you’re not surprised, are you? You either sensed—or know for sure—that Pete had information, information he may have planned to use in some way.”

He pressed his palms together and crossed his thumbs, as though he was about to pray. “I
cannot
speak to that,” he said again.

It took me a minute, but I finally connected the dots. “Oh,” I said. “Confession.”

His answer was one syllable. “Yes.”

“All right,” I said, taking a breath. “Might I ask some things about his life? Where he would go for shelter, for example?”

His shoulders relaxed and he nodded. “Well, he would come here whenever we sheltered the homeless, which is about once a month for several days. During the cold months, he would sometimes travel to the county shelter and stay there for weeks at a time. On occasion, he would rent rooms, but he never lasted long.”

Given his hygiene,
I thought,
it was a miracle he lasted anywhere.
“Did he go to hotels?” I asked. “I wouldn’t think he could afford them.”

“No,” he said, “but one of our parishioners, Mrs. Ferraro, would sometimes rent him a room in her basement. She lives in an old house over on Eighth.”

“That’s near my parents,” I said, scribbling the name in my notebook. I would definitely be paying her a visit. “Father,” I asked, “if you think about the route between the restaurant and the rides pier, can you think of places he might have sheltered the night of the storm?”

He tilted his head in thought. “I assumed he wandered into the carousel house to get out of the storm. That was the direction he was heading when I last saw him.”

“I’m pretty sure it would have been closed. In fact, that’s one of my big questions: What was he doing there?”

“Have you tried to trace his movements?”

I nodded. “Unfortunately, I found one of my father’s wine bottles and a dinner napkin from the restaurant in the alley next door. I think that was his first stop. And our line cook, Nando, told me he saw Pete carrying a shopping bag with something heavy in it.”

“And you think more wine was in that bag?” He spoke slowly, weighing his words. “Are you saying that you believe someone at the restaurant deliberately gave Pete wine, perhaps to cause him to drink himself into a stupor—or worse?”

“Yes. Call it a gut feeling, but I can’t shake it. His blood alcohol was unusually high, even for a heavy drinker.”

Father Tom released a sigh. “Poor Pete. Out there alone in the storm like a drunken King Lear. What a sad end.”

“It’s that, Father, for sure, but it might also be a deliberate one.”

He put his hand on my arm. “Victoria, you know there are things I can’t tell you about him. But if you’re asking me whether someone might have had a motive to take Pete’s life, the answer is yes. I’ll say this much: Through his own bad choices—through his own sins, if you will—he made himself vulnerable to someone’s evil designs.”

*   *   *

Someone’s evil designs.
The phrase repeated itself over and over as I left the rectory. While the priest’s words might have been a bit melodramatic, their meaning was clear. Pete wasn’t lying when he said he knew things. But what did he do with that information? Or
intend
to do? On impulse, I pulled over, dug my phone out of my purse, and searched for a Ferraro in Oceanside Park on Eighth Street. There was just one—Lillian—and it appeared she was the only person in her household. I had about an hour of daylight left and decided to take a chance. I couldn’t show up at an old lady’s door in the dark, but if I hurried, I just might get the information I needed.

The ramshackle Colonial at the end of the block loomed over the tidy Cape Cods and bungalows that lined the street. A nondescript shade of brown with black trim, the house was badly in need of paint. One window shutter hung crookedly, and the brick steps were in disrepair. There was an air of poverty about the place; it was no wonder Lillian Ferraro was willing to rent her basement to Stinky Pete.

I hesitated at the front door, wondering what I would say.
Try the truth, Vic, for once.
I rang the doorbell and held my breath. The tiny woman who opened it frowned at me.

“May I help you?” she said. “I don’t want any religious magazines if that’s what you’re selling. I have my own church.”

“Are you Mrs. Ferraro?” I asked.

“That’s Miss Ferraro. Who are you?”

I held out my hand. “I’m Victoria Rienzi. My family owns the Casa Lido. In fact, my parents live one block over on Seventh.”

Her face creased into a smile as she took my hand. “I know your grandmother from church. Sometimes we go to bingo together.” She opened the door wider. “Would you like to come in?”

I followed her into a living room that looked like a 1970s time capsule. The furniture was good quality but shabby, done in a neo-Colonial style that featured lots of eagles and crossed rifles on the upholstery fabric. She led me to the kitchen and motioned me to sit down.

“Call me Lillian, please.” She settled into the small chair across from me. “What can I help you with?”

“Miss Ferraro—Lillian—did you sometimes rent your basement to Pete Petrocelli?”

She nodded. “Yes, now and then. I felt sorry for him.” She lifted a thin shoulder. “And to tell the truth, I could use the money. I heard what happened the night of the storm. They say he drank himself to death. Is that true?” She blinked behind her thick glasses, her watery blue eyes magnified.

“I don’t think they know yet how he died. In fact, that’s something I’m trying to find out. He was at our restaurant that night, and we’re all wondering what happened to him.”

She nodded again as I spoke. “It’s only natural,” she said. “To want to know, I mean. But I hadn’t seen him for about a month. He came in June and left at the end of July.”

“Did he leave because he couldn’t pay you?” I asked.

“No, he always paid. And always in cash.” She shook her head. “But I asked him to leave. He was
scifoso
,” she said, using Italian slang for a dirty person. Despite her old appliances and speckled linoleum floor, Lillian’s kitchen was immaculate; it smelled of the fresh basil and marigolds she had in pots along the counter. No matter how much she needed the money, it must have taken a lot for her to allow Stinky Pete into her home. And that raised another question: How did Pete afford to pay rent?

“You say he always paid?” I asked. “Where do you think he got the money?”

She shrugged. “Me, I don’t ask.”

But I do.
“I know this is an imposition,” I began, “but would you mind letting me see where he stayed? Maybe I can get some idea of how he died.”

She opened a door off her kitchen and pointed down a narrow flight of steps. “You can look. I don’t mind. But I don’t like to take them steps if I can help it, so I can’t go showing you around.” She lifted her chin as though challenging me to argue with her. “I’ve got the arthritis, you know.”

“Please, don’t trouble yourself,” I said, starting down the stairs, feeling lucky and relieved to be on my own to look around. “I’ll be fine.”

She switched a light on behind me and called out, “The room is on the right side. Has its own entrance. I didn’t want him in my kitchen.”

Even in late summer, the basement room was chilly, the stone walls unfinished and damp with moisture. An old-fashioned camp bed stood in a corner, covered with a thin cotton blanket in a faded shade of blue. There was a small table with a lamp, and a ratty braided rug on the floor, but that was all. I switched on the lamp and surveyed the space. There was no indication that anyone had even been here. I leaned close to the bed and sniffed, but smelled only laundry detergent. Mrs. Ferraro had probably washed all the bedding thoroughly.

Dropping to my knees next to the bed, I slid my hand under the mattress and pulled out a flat object, a navy blue billfold that looked like a passport. But when I opened it and saw what was inside, I knew. It wasn’t a passport, but a pass
book
, from First Savings Oceanside Park. A book that showed small deposits of cash, rarely more than a hundred dollars at a time. I looked at the machine-stamped dates. Two years previous there had been a balance of less than fifty dollars. The last deposit, made only two weeks ago, brought the balance to nearly ten thousand. While I knelt in that musty, dark room, the truth struck me. Small deposits, all in different amounts, spaced at fairly regular intervals. An account that grew from a few dollars to several thousand.