Murder and Marinara (11 page)

“You speak Italian—what'd she say?”

Tim stood up with a groan, stretching his stiff arms and legs. He rubbed his hand over his stubbly chin and grinned. “I didn't get it all,” he said. “But I'm pretty sure we're engaged.”

“F
lirting with one suspect and sleeping with another.
Tsk-tsk
, Vic. Bernardo should have such an exciting life.”

“Cut it out, Sofie.” I rubbed the temples of my still-aching head, but I was glad to be in my cottage and far away from my irate grandmother. “And I didn't sleep
with
him. I slept next to him. There's a world of difference.” I got up from my kitchen table to pour myself another cup of coffee.

“If you say so,” she said.

I sat back down and sipped my coffee, willing the caffeine to do its work on the pulsing blood vessels in my brain. “Look, it's not like I had a choice. Somebody was in that restaurant last night. Tim and I both heard him, and then he locked us in that pantry.”

“You think it was the murderer, don't you?”

“Who else? Nothing was stolen. The kitchen was pretty messed up, but that was it. Clearly, somebody was looking for something.” I held the sides of my head and moaned. “I just went over all of this with the police.”

“What'd they say? Did they take you seriously?”

“I guess. I called Danny right away, and he sent me down there to file a report. As his sister, I have some cred.” I sighed. “They're probably sending everything over to the county prosecutor anyway.”

“If it was the murderer,” Sofie pointed out, “this lets Tim off the hook.” She paused. “Unless he's in cahoots with the Widow Angie.”

“If he is, he's a pretty damn good actor.” I shook my head. “I don't buy it, SIL.”

“You're not exactly unbiased where Tim is concerned.”

“I'll give you that one.” I said.

“By the way,” Sofie said, “why are your teeth blue?”

“Ugh. I know.” I automatically put my hand to my mouth. “I brushed twice. Apparently, my father's homemade swill pierces tooth enamel. The desk sergeant kept staring at my mouth.”

She pushed my plate of cold toast across the table. “Eat. You'll feel better.”

I groaned. “If I had a dollar for every time somebody in my family said that to me.”

“We say it because it's true. Now take a bite. You need your strength.” She slapped the red folder down on the table. “While you've been off having fun with the Macho Twins,
I
have been busy.”

“And you think I haven't?” I said through a mouthful of toast. It was whole grain—Sofia's idea, of course. I took another sip of black coffee to wash it down before I made my announcement. “Last night Tim told me something of great importance, missy. Angie—excuse me, Anjelica—suspected her hubby of having an affair.”

Sofia's lower jaw dropped in slow motion. “GET. OUT.”

“No, thanks. I live here.” I pushed the plate of toast away and concentrated on the coffee. I was going to need it.

“We have to find out who she is,” Sofia said, scribbling furiously on her pad. “Then we have to find out if she was anywhere near Oceanside when Parisi started feeling sick. Ooh, can I have this one?”

I waved a hand at her. “Knock yourself out. Now what have
you
got, SIL?”

“I've got Mikey and Fifi—that's who.”

“Who?” Mikey and Fifi sounded like names for a pair of Scottish terriers.

“Mike Gemelli, aka Mikey G, and Francesca Cavatoppi, affectionately called Fifi,” Sofia said, wrinkling her nose. She tapped her nail on the folder. “Both stars of
The
Jersey Side
were with him that day. They both had access. And I wouldn't put it past that little
puttana
to kill him just to get her raise.”

“You've lost me.”

“You don't read at all, do you?” She shook her head in disgust. “Both those kids are in contract talks. They were asking for ridiculous amounts of money.”

“But then killing their producer doesn't make sense.”

Sofia looked at me, her impatience tinged with pity. “Parisi wasn't the only producer on the show. His partner, Harvey Rosen, was willing to meet the kids' terms. Our victim wasn't, and now he's out of the way. Convenient, no?”

My blurry thoughts were starting to clear. “They were the two kids up on the boards with him, right?” I looked at Sofia. “If he had anything to eat or drink up there, it's possible one of them could have given him something.”

“You bet, SIL.” She leaned across the table, her eyes shining. “And you're the one who's gonna find that out.”

“Me?” I sat back in my chair. “Why me?”

“You're a writer,” she said, as if that explained it all.

“And?”

“Geez, you're slow today.” My sister-in-law shook her head. “You're going to approach them about your book.”

I narrowed my eyes. “What do they have to do with Isabella?”

“Not that book. Your
other
book. The one you're writing about reality show stars and their path to fame.”

I put my head in my hands. “How did I get into this?”

Sofia gathered her notes in the red folder. “That would be me. And your crazy nonna.” She stood up and pushed in her chair. “I'm headed up to the boardwalk to see which stands were open that day and if anyone noticed Parisi eating or drinking. Then I'm gonna find out who Parisi's girlfriend was.” She paused. “I should probably talk to Anne McCrae, too. She comes in for yoga.”

“Oh, right! I forgot our redoubtable mayor was there that day.”

But McCrae was a big supporter of the show coming to town, much to the dismay of many of her constituents, my family included. Though she tolerated me because I was a writer, she was no fan of the Rienzi clan, as Nonna and my dad had a habit of showing up at town meetings to express their very decided opinions on town politics. Dealing with the mayor might be a bit tricky. “She wouldn't have a motive, though, would she?”

Sofia shrugged. “Who knows? But she was stuck to him like glue that day, and maybe she knows something.” She pointed at me. “And you also have more than one job. You need to find out about those herbs.”

“Oh my God. I almost forgot.” Luckily, or grossly, I was still wearing last night's jeans. I pulled the crumpled packets from my pockets, along with the Tiffany receipt.

“Give me that.” Sofia grabbed the receipt and tucked it into her red folder. “You cannot be trusted with important evidence. And get crackin' on contacting those kids. They're still down here; they're staying at that fancy historic place in Bay Head.”

“They're at the Villa Fortuna? C'mon. I need to put a dress on just to walk into that place, and all my good clothes are back in the city. You think I can just waltz in and ask to see them? They probably have handlers and security and entourages and—” But she was already out the door. And I had a choice: I could try to approach the
Jersey Side
kids to pump them for information, or I could go back to the restaurant and face Nonna. There was really no contest.

•   •   •

After showering and finding a passable skirt and blouse, I made the drive to Bay Head, with Bruce in the CD player for courage. I pulled up to the Villa Fortuna, my shabby Honda a standout among the BMWs and Land Rovers lining the sidewalk. Smoothing out my wrinkled skirt, I gazed up at the massive Italianate Victorian structure. It was a bit hard to imagine Mikey G and Fifi taking up residence in here. By some miracle, I had managed to get both kids on the phone; Fifi was amenable to a meeting, and as it turned out, Mikey's father was a Bernardo Vitali fan, so I was in with him, too.

I started with Fifi, who occupied one of the more modest rooms on the second floor. As the cost of even a modest room at the Villa Fortuna was still about equal to a month's rent on my cottage, her digs were impressive. The minute she greeted me at the door, I knew why Fifi had gotten her name; her curly mane and poufy bangs suggested a large-eyed, well-groomed poodle, but a miniature one. Fifi barely made five feet; when I reached down to shake her tiny hand, I felt downright willowy.

She took a seat on a velvet settee and blinked her thickly coated lashes at me. She was actually a pretty girl, under all the foundation, blush, bronzer, eyeliner, mascara, and lash extensions. Despite her plump proportions, her legs were shapely. She wore a thick silver ankle bracelet graced by a heart-shaped charm, which clanked every time she moved. On her slender ankle, it suggested a manacle.
A slave to fame?
I wondered. I sat down across from her to get a better look—was it from Tiffany? Or Canal Street? Sofia would have known in seconds. It wasn't a necklace, but if Fifi were Parisi's mysterious girlfriend, he may have bought more than one gift there.

I pointed to her ankle. “That's a great piece.”

“Thanks.” She lifted her foot, revealing a pedicure that included tiny rhinestones. “I also have the bracelet, necklace, and ring that match it.” She wrinkled her pug nose. “But I think it's tacky to wear them all at the same time.”

This from a girl with diamonds on her toenails. She grinned suddenly, and I got a look at the child she really was.
Please
, I thought,
if he was cheating,
don't let her be Parisi's girlfriend
. He was old enough to be her father.

“So I hear you wanna write a book about me,” she said, studying her fingernails, which also sported gems. “There's already a whaddayacallit—an
unauthorized
one—some bitch wrote and made a bundle off of.”

“Uh, well, this isn't actually a biography.”

“It isn't?” She sounded as though I had said no to buying her ice cream.

“Not really, Francesca. I'm looking at young reality stars to see how they're handling fame.”

She waved a glittery hand. “Geez, I could talk for hours on that one. And call me Fifi, 'kay? Everybody else does.” She frowned a little, and I wondered if she was sick of the nickname.

“But Francesca's such a pretty name.”

She shrugged. “At home I was Frannie, which I hate.” She sat up to her full fifty-nine inches. “Do we start today?”

I was prepared for resistance, not enthusiasm. I scrabbled in my bag for a pen and notebook. Then I took the plunge. “So, Fifi, first I want to apologize for the timing.”

“Timing?” Her face was a bronzed blank.

“Well, after what happened to your producer,” I said, lowering my voice to convey some respect.

“Oh, right. I feel kinda bad about that. He had, like, a heart attack, right?” She picked at one of the rhinestones on her thumb. “God. Ya can't get a decent mani around here.”

“I think so,” I said, as I wrote,
Not too shaken up
,
on my pad. “Did you work very closely with him?”

“Not really. Harvey was on set more than he was.” At the mention of Rosen's name, her face softened. “Harvey's really cool. He's young. And he's nice to us.”

“And he's supporting you in your contract talks?”
Is she involved with Harvey?
got added to my notes, along with
Check out Rosen
. When I looked up at her, she was no longer smiling. “Are you from the newspaper?” she asked, her voice shrill.

“Absolutely not, Fifi!” I was relieved to be telling the truth for once. “I just wanted to convey my condolences about Mr. Parisi.”

She sat up primly. “Well, I feel sad for his wife.”

My head jerked up from my pad. “Do you know her?”

“I only met her once.” Her large eyes grew wider. “She's soooo pretty. I wish I looked like that.”

The subject of Angie/Anjelica's looks grated on me like sand in the bedsheets. “Right, well—”

“And I know Harvey thought so, too,” Fifi continued. A sly note had crept into her voice. “I don't think Gio liked that him and his wife were BFFs.”

While I would have loved nothing better than adding another motive to Anjelica's growing list, kids Fifi's age used “BFF” to describe a wide range of relationships. Still, I scribbled
How close were A and Rosen?????
as quickly as I could.

“Hey.” Fifi was now standing, her arms crossed over her unnaturally high bosom. “I thought we were talking about me.”

“Just getting some background notes.” I smiled up at her in what I hoped was a winning manner. “So you must do lots of promotional appearances. How did things go in Oceanside Park last week?”

Fifi plopped back down on the couch and made a face. “Ugh. That place is a dump. I can't believe they want us to film there.”

“So, is that happening?” I asked, trying to keep my tone neutral.

“I dunno. They don't tell me shit.”

“Oh.”
Bring it back to the boardwalk, Vic.
“So did you have fun on the boardwalk?”

“Please.” She rolled her eyes. “It's not like it's Seaside.”

“No, it certainly isn't,” I said heartily. “But we . . . uh,
they
have great homemade lemonade and amazing pizza. So I hear.”

“I guess. Mikey mostly ate. Me, I graze 'cause that's healthier. So I just had the cheese fries.”

“So did you
all
get a chance to sample the food?” I wondered how much longer Fifi would stand for these questions. I sounded lame even to my own ears.

She shook her head. “Nah. Gio is on some natural diet. He just brings his special water.” Clearly, Fifi's patience was at an end. “Are we gonna, like, talk about the book, or what?”

“Of course. If you'll give me a few more minutes, I can outline the project for you and you can run it by your agent.”

I spent another fifteen minutes talking about my nonexistent nonfiction project, wondering how many purgatory hours I'd be logging for all the lies. But in talking to Fifi, I could sense a sadness and confusion under the bravado and the makeup. She was barely twenty and had quit college to be filmed drinking, screaming, and making a fool of herself on a weekly basis. As I closed the door behind me, I realized that Parisi—along with his buddy Rosen—had exploited this girl and made her a joke for posterity. For some of us, that would be a motive for murder. I left Fifi's hotel room with a head full of questions about Anjelica, Rosen, and Parisi, but pretty sure of one thing: Fifi Cavatoppi was no killer.