Murder and Marinara (13 page)

“You married in.”

“I know.” She sighed. “And I'd like it to stay that way.”

I patted her arm. “Be patient. You guys will work it out.”

“I hope so.” She raised an eyebrow at me. “By the way, your Cal is kinda hot, in a ‘Down on the Bayou' sorta way.” She wrinkled her nose. “Too old, though.”

Why was I relieved? “He's not ‘my Cal.' And he's not that old.”

“Pushin' forty.” She waved her hand. “Anyway, never mind that stuff now. There's something you have to see.” Sofia called me over to her desk. “Pull up that chair.” The RealTV Web site was open on her screen, and I watched her type “Jersey Side, cow” into the search bar.

“‘Cow'?” I asked.

She turned serious eyes on me. “Just wait till it loads.”

As the pumping theme music rolled, we watched a montage of three girls and two guys that included Fifi and Mikey G in various activities that were dominated by dancing, drinking, and brawling. “I've never really watched this,” I said, “but even the opening credits offend me.”

“Oh, it gets better,” Sofia said.

The episode began with the group rolling out of bed at two in the afternoon and feasting on a breakfast of cold pizza. This riveting scene was followed by one at the beach, during which the kids compared the merits of tanning oil versus tanning lotion in an eye-glazing discussion that went on forever. By the time Mikey G was making his pecs dance, I'd had enough. “Please, Sofe, make it stop. Can't you just fast-forward?”

“There's not much more of it.” She put the volume up. “Okay, listen to this part. They're talking about their plans for that night.”

“I can hardly wait.” She shushed me again, and I concentrated on listening to Mikey and his sidekick, the quaintly named Jimmy Juice, aka JJ, as they debated about which night spot offered the most “cows.”

“So that's how they talk about women?” I asked, but already knew the answer.

Sofia's expression was tight and angry. “Yup. But this is only part of that episode. The network doesn't air the rest of it anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Because it's too awful, even by reality TV standards.” She pointed to the computer screen. “But I can give you the gist of it: Good ol' Mikey and his buddy pick up a not very pretty overweight girl at the bar who recognizes them from the show and is thrilled with their attention. Cut to commercial break, after which the guys and about half the bar are screaming names at her and pouring drinks over her head.”

“Oh my God. That's awful.”

“It sure is,” Sofia said. “And here's what's worse: Before the network pulled it, clips from that episode had gone viral, so that girl's humiliation had nearly a million views.”

I gasped. “That poor girl.”

“‘That poor girl' is right,” Sofia said. She closed the page and opened a new tab, then logged into Facebook. “And here she is.” She turned her screen so I could see it clearly: There was a picture of a young woman with a cheerful, round face holding a small dog. She had a long list of friends and a number of recent messages on her page. It appeared she had survived her public humiliation. But when I saw her name, I inhaled sharply: Tina Biaggio, of Oceanside Park, New Jersey.

My eyes met Sofia's, and she nodded. I pointed to the screen. “That's not . . .”

“It sure is,” she said. “That's Mr. Biaggio's daughter. Your grocery guy. The one who was part of the protest that day.” She paused. “And the one who delivered the produce for Gio Parisi's salad.”

“S
o we've got opportunity
and
motive,” I said.

Sofia nodded. “I'd wanna kill somebody who did that to my daughter. Wouldn't you?”

“But Parisi didn't actually do it. Those disgusting kids did.”

She shrugged. “He aired it. And don't forget that Mr. Biaggio was opposed to the show filming here; in a way, that gives him two motives.” She drummed her fingers on the desk. “I'd like to know if he tried to take any action against the network.” She clicked open a blank document. “Let's get some notes down on this.”

“But even if he complained to the network, he wouldn't have gotten anywhere.” I said. “Tina probably signed a release.”

“Wouldn't that be all the more reason to take revenge on him?” Sofia tapped quickly on her keyboard.

“Maybe.” As I watched Sofie's notes appear on the screen, I tried to picture Mr. B as a viable suspect. I'd known him for years, but only as our produce man. What did we really know about him? Was he violent? Did he have a temper? I had a sudden image of his reddened, furious face when he realized who was sitting in the dining room that day. And with Tim so busy and me in and out, he could have had time to put something in Parisi's food.

“There's something else, SIL.” Sofia stopped typing and looked over at me. “Your intruder was somebody who knows the restaurant and who would know where to find the breaker box and the pantry key.”

I shivered at the memory of that dark hallway and the pantry door closing behind us, but another thought swiftly overtook that one. “If he's the intruder, he also took the trash.” I shook my head. “I'm having trouble buying it. I mean, is Mr. B smart enough to work that all out? To trap us that way and then take away the trash in case of food evidence?”

“That's what we've got to find out. We need to talk to him.” Sofia saved her notes and turned toward me in her chair. “And by ‘we,' I mean you.”

“Why me?”

“You know him. He's comfortable with you. He might let something slip.”

“Great. First, I have to deal with Mikey G's scary father and have his damn kid sneer at me. Now you want me to face down a possible murderer.”

“All in a day's work, Bernardo. Look, we have to do this. For one thing, you have exactly five days before Nina LaGuardia pounces for an interview.”

“I was trying not to think about that.”

“You don't have a choice. You've got to clear the restaurant and everybody connected with it.” She cast me an innocent look. “Think of Isabella.”

“What about her?”

“Well, a murder at the Casa Lido might sell some mysteries, but I don't see it doing much for your literary work-in-progress.”

Now there was a troubling thought. I had dreamed of publishing this book under my own name, but if that name were tainted, how many editors would be willing to take a chance on me? Now I had one more reason to clear up Parisi's death. “You don't play fair, SIL.”

“That's why I usually win.” She handed me a sheet of paper. “Here. While you've been whining, I made a list of questions for Mr. B.”

I looked down at the paper and back at Sofie. “‘Where were you on the afternoon of the murder?' Really, Sofe?”

“So edit them. But the important thing is to talk to him.”

“I'll talk to him, but only in the restaurant, preferably with somebody else on the premises. And it has to be a
conversation.
If he thinks I'm interrogating him, he'll clam up.” I paused. “And if he did it, he could be dangerous.”

“Focus on his daughter, then. Start by asking about her; people love talking about their kids. Then you can lead up to the television show.”

I rested my head in my hands, trying to gather thoughts that were too slippery to hold.

“What's the matter?” Sofia asked.

I looked up at her. “It's just that none of this fits together.”

“That's 'cause you're used to writing the plot.” She grinned. “This one's writing you.”

“C'mon, Sofe. Look at what we've got. A jewelry receipt, some dried-up herbs, and an Internet video. Aside from the fact that it's all circumstantial, there's nothing cohesive here. Certainly not enough to build a case on.”

But Sofia talked right over me, ticking off her points on her fingers. “We've also got a mysterious break-in and some missing garbage. Right there, that's suspicious. Now throw in a protective father, a sketchy wife, a chef who has a history with said sketchy wife and who faints when he sees the body—”

“Hey, I told you Tim is—”

She held up her hand. “Let me finish. And I'm not ruling out Mr. Down on the Bayou, either.”

“We don't know if he even knew Parisi.”

“So we'll find out.” She looked at me, her expression serious. “And you're positive we can rule out Lori? I know she's your friend, but—”

“Absolutely. I was with her the whole time. She went over to Parisi's table exactly once, and that was to clear up his stuff. When I went back to give him the check, he was already sick and sweating.” I shook my head. “The timing just isn't right. And anyway, what possible reason would Lori have to kill Parisi? It's ludicrous.”

My sister-in-law's glossy lips were set in a stubborn line. “We can't ignore the fact that she was there.”

“So was I, for that matter.”

Sofie dismissed me with a flutter of her slender hand. “Don't be ridiculous. The only way you can kill people is in print.”

“Thanks. I think.”

She went on. “Listen. Our list aside, I'm beginning to think we need to look at other people who weren't on the scene. Rosen, Mikey G and his father, and anybody else who might have had a grudge against him.”

“But depending on what the tox results are, that person needed access to Parisi within a specific window of time. We have to find out how he spent his day up to the minute he walked into the restaurant at three thirty.” I shook my head. “I don't know. I think his ‘special water' had a little something extra in it.”

“Could be. When I made the rounds of the food stands on the boardwalk, no one remembered Parisi eating anything. I think one of us should ask Danny if the police found the water bottle on the body.”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “‘One of us'?”

“Okay, you. I don't want to push it.”

As she talked, I had a sudden image of a different sort of bottle. “Holy crap. I can't believe I forgot the water.”

“That's what we're talking about, right? His water bottle.”

“No, he ordered a bottle of San Pellegrino with his lunch. He finished it, and I threw the bottle into the recycling bin. I'm not even sure I remembered to tell the police that when they questioned me.”

“Did you open it for him?”

I shook my head. “No. I brought it out to him sealed. I know that for sure. He opened it and poured the water into his glass.”

“Which means that anybody in the dining room could have slipped something into either the bottle or his glass.”

“Or into his tea or his salad, or even the salad dressing.”

Sofie tapped away on her keyboard. “I need to get all this down.” She stopped and looked up at me. “Did the police take the recycled containers?”

I shut my eyes, thinking back to that night. “Yes. I remember a uniformed officer carrying the bin.” I breathed a small sigh. “They're probably testing everything in it, but—”

“But what?”

“I'm betting that San Pellegrino bottle is clean. It's much easier to drop something into a water glass than into a narrow bottle. And anyway, that glass was sterilized in a dishwasher, along with his plate, teacup, silverware, and the gravy boat that held the dressing.” I rubbed my temples. “This is making my brain hurt.”

“What about his hot water?” Sofia asked.

“You mean for the tea? I boiled it and poured it into his cup myself. Then I brought the carafe back to the kitchen.”

“Too many liquids,” Sofia grumbled. “Okay, let's walk through this. If his salad, tea, dressing, or water was poisoned, the murderer is most likely somebody who was in the restaurant.”

“Or,” I said, finishing the thought, “if the poison was in his own water bottle, it's anybody who might have had access to it.” I groaned. “Without those autopsy results, there's so much we don't know.”

“Okay, Vic. Maybe we don't know how or what, but something killed that guy. Those broken blood vessels in his eyes prove it.”

“And if you dare tell Danny I told you that, you are dead, sister.”

Sofia rolled her eyes. “As if I couldn't take you with one hand.” She pushed her chair back from her desk. “Okay, let's regroup and get our assignments lined up. You're talking to Biaggio.”

“Reluctantly, but, yes, I'll talk to him. Hey, I forgot to ask you if you got in to see Anne McCrae.”

“No.” Sofia shook her head. “I thought I could catch her after her regular exercise class, but she skipped out on me.”

“Okay, I'll also talk to Her Honor the mayor; she's been trying to get me to come to her book group, so I'll have an excuse. And at least she tolerates me.” I pulled out my pad to make some notes while Sofia scribbled a few of her own.

“Meanwhile, I'm gonna do some research,” she said. “Starting with Cal, Mikey G, and his possibly connected father.”

“Oh, speaking of connections, my agent has a contact who might be able to tell us about Harvey Rosen—what kind of terms he and Parisi were on and how close Rosen and Angie really were.” I pointed with my pen. “And let's not forget that Tim said Angie claims Parisi was cheating on her. I'd sure like to know who that mystery woman is, because that's another name to add to our list.”

Sofia sighed. “Now
my
brain hurts. How many people wanted this guy dead?”

“Only one, SIL. It's just a matter of finding out who.”

O
n Monday morning I headed over to the mayor's office. Our little town hall shared space with the police department, and I had a vague sense of guilt as I entered the building. My brother might be willing to turn a blind eye to my detecting, but what about his superiors? I slipped down the corridor toward her office, relieved not to see anyone in a blue uniform.

“Victoria. It's lovely to see you again.” Mayor Anne McCrae stretched out a hand devoid of rings and nail polish and gripped mine firmly. Her browned callused hands represented days spent in the sun, whether on the beach or in her award-winning garden. A shore person born and bred, Anne was in her midforties and single, but with her salt-and-pepper hair and pale gray eyes, she seemed a decade older. She cared for little beyond her town, its beaches, and her regular tennis game. She would have found a husband an encumbrance, and there were times that I (and probably much of the town) wondered whether she even liked men.

“You too, Anne,” I said. “How have you been?”

“Oh, you know what it's like a week before the season begins. I've been as busy as those bees in my
Buddleia
bushes. Sit down, please.” She leaned forward on her desk and clasped her hands together. “So, have I finally talked you into speaking with my book group?”

“Yes, if you don't mind waiting until the fall.”
And may September never come.
“I'm back to do some research about our family business, and I've been helping out at the restaurant. You know how busy we are during the season.”

“I do, yes,” she said slowly, and then paused. “However, I hear the Casa Lido has not been very busy these days.”

Way to turn the tables, Anne.
I cleared my throat. “Yes, that's true. Things have been quiet at the restaurant lately.”

“It's a shame what happened.”

I pondered what she meant. Was it a shame that the restaurant was losing business or a shame that Parisi died there? “Yes . . . yes, it was.”

“Such a vital man.” She sighed. “With such vision and so full of ideas.”

He was full of ideas, all right, and none of them good. Yet here was our brisk, no-nonsense town leader sighing over a guy who might have brought ruin to our little beach community. I glanced at her wistful face, and a thought struck me: Was Anne McCrae Parisi's mystery mistress? It might explain why she was so willing to hand us over to RealTV. Admittedly, it was hard to imagine this weather-beaten woman a match for the polished producer. Without realizing it, I shook my head.

“Don't you agree?” Anne asked.

“Oh. Well, no, Anne, I don't. I'm sorry he's dead, of course, but I wouldn't have wanted
The Jersey Side
to film here.”

She pressed her palms against the top of her desk and leaned forward in her chair. “I know your family was against it, too. They made that clear enough with that silly protest.”

I would never learn anything if this meeting became adversarial, so I pasted a smile on my face. “Yes, it's true. My family was against the show filming in Oceanside, as were a number of other merchants.” I crossed my fingers in my lap as I was about to engage in another round of lies. “But if it turns out the show ends up filming here, we'll make the best of it.”

“That's not likely to happen now, is it? Something that would have been such a boon to our economy, too. Well, we'll find some other way to survive. We always do, don't we?” She cocked her head, and her eyes narrowed. “I do hope we can say the same for the Casa Lido, though.”

“Me too, Anne.” I couldn't quite make out the mayor's tone, but I would swear she was relishing the Casa Lido's troubles. We were a small gold mine for the town, and it wouldn't make sense for her to take delight in our downfall. Since she had steered me to the subject, I figured it was time to throw caution to the winds and come clean. I was sick of telling lies anyway. “In fact, that's part of the reason I'm here. If it turns out that Gio Parisi died from more than a simple heart attack, it's going to look very bad for the restaurant. It's no secret that people are already staying away.”

“But how can I help you?” There was so much caution in her tone, there should have been an amber light blinking over her head. So much for sincerity.

“I'm hoping you can answer a few questions for me. You spent some time with him on the day he died. Did he seem ill in any way?”

She shook her head firmly. “Absolutely not. He was the picture of health. As I said, he was a vital man. And an attractive one. But what he saw in that wife of his, I'll never know.”

Don't stop now, Anne.
“You know, she grew up near here,” I said.

“Hmmph,” she said with a little sniff. “All I know is that she must have called him three or four times during his appearance on the boardwalk.”

“Is that so?” I tried hard to keep my tone neutral. “Lots of husbands and wives call each other during the day to stay in touch.”

“Checking up on him is more like it. Where was he? What was he doing next? When would he be home?” She clucked her tongue like a disapproving hen.

It took all my control not to grab my notebook from my purse and start writing. Why would Angie be checking on Parisi's every move? Was she afraid he was with his mistress? I glanced at Anne's frowning and, frankly, rather plain face and had trouble believing she was the producer's mystery girlfriend. But who was? In any case, it was time to turn the questions back to the heart of the matter.

“Did you notice whether he had anything to eat or drink up at the boardwalk?” I couldn't take Fifi's word for gospel on this one, and I knew Sofie couldn't have gotten to every stand and restaurant.

But our mayor shook her head again. “No. He mentioned that he was trying to eat more healthily, and he was sipping a water bottle. But that was it.” She looked me full in the face. “Perhaps he was allergic to something he ate in the restaurant.”

“That's possible, of course.”

“Or perhaps it was food poisoning.”

I felt my insides tighten with anger, but I couldn't afford to unleash my inner Nonna. Not now, anyway. “There's no possibility of that, Anne.” And no possibility of finding out, now that the trash was gone.

“Well, we'll know after the autopsy results are in.” She gestured to the door of her office. “I should really step out and ask the chief if we have any more information about that.”

It was a clear signal, and I didn't think I'd get much more from her today anyway. I stood up and reached out my hand. “Thank you for seeing me today, Anne.”

I winced as she gripped my hand. “You're very welcome. And let's plan to have you come speak to the group after Labor Day, all righty?”

“Absolutely. I'll put it on my calendar.” I turned to go, and it was then that Mayor McCrae dropped her little bomb.

“And, Victoria, do keep me posted on how the restaurant is doing, won't you?” She smiled in a practiced politician sort of way and paused. “Because if your grandmother and parents decide to sell, I have a very interested buyer. He's hoping to turn the space into a Starbucks—and won't that be a lucrative little business!”

I blinked, unable to utter a word. She swept around from behind her desk and held open her office door. “Now, do stay in touch, hon. And have a nice day!”

•   •   •

Still reeling from the fallout of my encounter with Mayor McCrae, I stopped at the laundry to pick up all the linens Tim and I had dirtied in the pantry, hoping to drop them back at the restaurant before my grandmother noticed. When I got back to the Casa Lido, there was a visitor waiting for me outside. From a distance, her small stature and short denim skirt gave her a youthful look, but once I got close, I could see that she was over fifty. Her blond hair was cut in a chin-length bob, her bangs reaching almost to her bright blue eyes. Her makeup was expertly but heavily applied. The whole effect was one of a woman trying too hard.

“May I help you?” I asked. “We're closed for business on Mondays.”

“I'm looking for Victoria Rienzi,” she said.

“I'm Victoria.”

She held out her hand. “I'm Emily Haverford. A friend of Gio Parisi.”

I had barely taken in this information when my eyes were riveted by a flash of silver at her neck. If only Sofia were here. Knowing I couldn't whip out my cell phone to take a picture, I made a point of memorizing the piece, but my gut told me it came from Tiffany. And I'd lay my father's odds it was the same one purchased at the Red Bank store the day Parisi died. I was imagining Parisi with a younger girlfriend, not one his own age. I unlocked the door and held it open for her. “Please come in.”

“Thank you. Is there somewhere we can talk?”

“Pretty much anywhere.” I dropped the laundry boxes in a corner and gestured to our family table at the back of the dining room. “Over there is fine. Would you like something to drink? Water or coffee?”

“No, thanks.” She sat down and shrugged off her sweater, and my eyes were again drawn to the silver chain around her neck.

“Beautiful necklace,” I said.

She smiled slightly. “Thank you. You must be wondering why I'm here.”

Not just that
.
Where'd you get that dang jewelry?
“Yes. I mean, I'm not sure how I can help you.”

She leaned across the table, her voice urgent. “You found him, didn't you? Do you think someone killed him?”

“Wow, you get straight to the point, don't you?” But I refrained from answering her question.

She tapped the table nervously. “I have to know. It's eating me up inside.”

“I'm sorry, but I'm not sure if I can help you. It's not like I knew him. I hadn't ever met him until the day he . . . walked in here.”

“I have to know about his last hours. It had been a while since I'd seen him.” She twisted a ring on her right hand, but her left was bare. Not married, I thought. Maybe divorced? “You see, I'd known him before. He left me for . . . her.” She shook her head.

Angie strikes again
.
Join the club, lady
. I looked at Emily Haverford with sympathy but resisted the urge to share what we had in common.

“I'm sorry. Mrs. Parisi was here asking me the same things, but there isn't a lot I can tell you.” Certainly not what Danny had told me about the broken blood vessels in his eyes. I took a breath. “He came in and had a salad, water, and a cup of tea. By the end of the meal, he was sweaty and sick. He asked for the men's room, and that was the last I saw of him until I found him outside.”

I met her intense blue stare. “Would you mind describing what he looked like when you found him?” she asked.

“I'm not even sure I should.”

She gripped my arm. “Please. I cared for him deeply.”

I wondered if “cared for him deeply” was subtext for “we were still sleeping together.” I sighed. “It wasn't pretty. He was facedown in his own vomit.”

She dropped her head in her hands, and I felt a rush of pity for her. “Look, Emily, until the results of his death are released, no one knows for sure how he died. Right now it looks like a heart attack.”

“But you're a mystery writer. You've done research about these things. Do you think he was murdered or not?”

I uttered four words that were completely truthful. “I can't really say.”

She hesitated, clearly struggling. “Listen, there's something . . .” She stopped and shook her head. “No, it wouldn't be fair, and much as I hate her—”

Her
could be only one person. I put my hand on her arm. “If you have information that's relevant to his death, you need to tell the police.”
And me. Tell me
.

Her startling eyes locked onto my own. “Gio told me that Anjelica had only married him for his money.”

Yeah, that's a shocker
. Then again, a man might say anything when he's cheating on his wife. I had to keep an open mind, but my curiosity was threatening to burn a hole in the tablecloth. “Is that so?” I asked.

She nodded. “In fact, he had a stringent prenup drawn up. She wouldn't have gotten much in a divorce.” A pained expression crossed her face. “Not that he would have left her.”

“So Anjelica stands to gain by his death?”

“Enormously. He has no other next of kin. He never had children, and both his parents are dead.”

Much as I wanted to believe Angie a murderer, I had to ask the next question. “What about you?”

She looked at me steadily. “As far as I know, he left me a small provision. We did spend a number of years together, after all. But I loved him.” Her voice broke. “I was
not
interested in his money.”

“I'm sorry,” I said. And I really was. This detective stuff was weighing heavily on my conscience. Lying, nosing into people's business, hurting them unnecessarily—what else would I be reduced to before this was over?

Emily sighed and slid a business card across the table. “If you're able to tell me more at some point, would you please call me?” She stood and put her sweater back on.

I tucked the card in my pocket and stood up. I reached out my hand. “Sorry I couldn't be more help.”

“That's okay.” She ducked her head to search for something in her purse, but I could see that it was an excuse to compose herself. She gripped her keys and looked at me again; in that moment, her age showed clearly in her face. Without another word, she turned and left the restaurant.

I pulled my phone from my pocket and hit speed dial. “Sofie, you're not gonna believe this one. Parisi's girlfriend showed up at the restaurant. And she just handed me Angie's motive on a silver platter.”