Murder and Marinara (2 page)

Danny caught my free hand. “He's grown up a lot, hon. And I'm not just saying that 'cause he's my friend.”

“I don't want to talk about this, okay?” I glanced up at him and risked a question of my own. “How's it going with you and Sofia?” Instantly, my loving brother morphed into Bad Cop, all hooded eyes and tight jaw.

“It's not. And I don't want to talk about it.”

“Fair enough,” I said, and nudged him with my elbow. “At this rate, Mommy's never gonna get that grandchild she wants so bad.”

“She never shuts up about it. Then her and Nonna double-team me.” He grinned. “Now you're here, so some of the pressure's off.”

“I don't know, Dan. I think they've given up on me. At the ripe old age of thirty-three, I'm pretty much on the shelf. At least you've
been
married.”

“I'm still married. And if it was up to me, it'd stay that way.” He refused to meet my eyes, and I knew better than to pursue it.

“Well,” I said, looking back up at the Casa Lido sign, “I guess it's now or never.”

Danny rested his hand against one of the wooden doors and winked at me. “You ready?”

I sighed. “As I'll ever be, brother.”

I
ducked under his arm through the open door and took a step back into the past. Not just my past, but the past of this place, originating with World War II. As my eyes adjusted to the cool darkness, I saw the dark-paneled walls, the ornately carved bar, the tables with their classic red-checked tablecloths. My great-grandparents had started with a wooden boardwalk stand that sold sandwiches and ended up building a business that's been flourishing for nearly seventy years.

I inhaled the mingled smells of simmering sauce and fresh basil and the licorice scent of anise flavoring in Nonna's ricotta cookies. It was a Monday, the only day of the week we were closed, so I knew that sauce was meant for me. From the time I was old enough to set a table, the Casa Lido had been my second home. I spent every summer of my life here, and I'd done everything except cook. I'd waited and bused tables, served as hostess and greeter, and worked behind the register. Before we used a laundry service, I'd washed and ironed linens. I'd helped my grandmother plant and harvest the tomatoes from the plot out back; I'd picked basil and parsley and mint. At twenty-five, I was driven to break the grip of the Casa Lido, and now, nearly a decade later, I was running back to its tight embrace.

But that metaphor shriveled and died the minute I caught the glint of her eyeglasses in the shadows. Behind those thick bifocals was a glare so hard, I flinched. Her arms, hardly outstretched in welcome, were crossed tightly over her chest like protective armor.

I swallowed, my mouth instantly dry, and tilted my head to peer closer. “Nonna?” I said weakly.

She didn't answer, but only took a step toward us. At eighty, my grandmother still had the ramrod posture of a soldier and was just as fearless. Tall and angular, she was handsome rather than pretty, but she still indulged in two small vanities: hair dye and red lipstick. As her face creased into a smile, I smiled back in a rush of affection—not to mention relief. And then she walked past me.

“
Daniele!
Did you come for lunch?” She caught my brother's two hands in her own and led him to the back table, where the family always sat.

“I can't stay long, Nonna.” Dan kissed her cheek and motioned toward me. “But look who I brought with me. Victoria. She's back, and she's gonna stay for a while.”

“She knows perfectly well who I am.” I stalked over to the table, pulled out a wooden chair, and plopped down. “I doubt she's forgotten me since Christmas.”

Nonna made a small hissing sound, like a snake about to strike. “But you missed Easter,” my brother said by way of interpretation.

“Again with that,” I groaned. “For God's sake.”

My grandmother's eyes widened, the nostrils of her enviable Roman nose flaring.

Danny looked at me in warning. “You shouldn't take the Lord's name in vain.”

“I don't need a translator, Danny. I am well-versed in Nonna-ese.” I smiled straight into her basilisk stare, surprised I hadn't yet turned to stone. “And I am happy to see her, even if the feeling isn't mutual.”

This time Nonna went deaf as well as dumb and disappeared into the kitchen. I pointed toward the large silver doors. “I can't believe she's still pissed off about Easter.”

“
I
can't believe you're surprised. You know her. She thinks you should be here every weekend.”

The we-don't-see-you-enough refrain was one I knew well. New York, a mere fifty miles away, was “too far.”
Oh, honey
, my mom would say,
you know Daddy hates all that traffic.
My brother barely left the confines of our little shore town, and to my grandmother, Manhattan was a place of sin and corruption. And everyone knew it was the girl's duty to visit her parents, right? I know I should have been here more, but for a long time, twice a year was all I could muster. Besides cooking, researching, and writing, I would now have to add fence-mending to my list. I sighed. “Where are Mom and Dad, anyway? I need reinforcements.”

“They'll be here.” He drummed his fingers on the table, and I caught a quick flash of gold on his left hand. Still wearing his wedding ring.
That's hopeful
, I thought. He glanced at the giant timepiece on his wrist. “It better be soon, though. I gotta get back.”

“Hey, Dan, I've been meaning to ask—is Daddy behaving?”

“Do you mean is he staying out of AC?” My brother wiggled his palm. “
Mezzo, mezzo
.”

Our father had an unfortunate predilection for the blackjack tables in Atlantic City, among other forms of speculation that involved numbers, horses, and the occasional bookie. “As long as he doesn't bet the restaurant away,” I said.

We were silenced as the kitchen doors burst open and Nonna set a plate down in front of each of us. Apparently, her punishment of me did not extend to starvation. Thank God. In front of me was a thing of beauty. A plate filled to its edges with homemade hand-cut cavatelli,
blanketed in my grandmother's fresh marinara sauce. The secret to Nonna's sauce was the fresh tomatoes she put up every August; our pantry shelves were lined with Mason jars full of bright red-orange
pomodori
, accented with basil leaves from the garden. I sniffed deeply at the rising steam from my plate, and my salivary glands wept with joy.
Nonna, bring me your worst
, I thought.
I'll put up with anything as long as you feed me like this.

But before I could have a bite, I was startled by a series of thuds.
Bang!
Water glass.
Bang, bang!
Cheese plate followed by a salad plate filled with fresh arugula. I looked up and smiled sweetly into my grandmother's scowling face. “Thank you, Nonna. And you made me my favorite, so you can't be that mad at me.” I forked several cavatelli and a nice chunk of tomato into my mouth, closed my eyes, and let out a low moan that under other circumstances might be taken for an altogether different sort of pleasure. “Mmmm,” I said. “This is sooooo good.” I opened one eye a crack. Did I spy a twitch at the corner of Nonna's mouth? She was a tough cookie, but she'd have to crumble eventually. She took a seat next to Danny and looked on approvingly as he inhaled his lunch.

I was about halfway through my own plate before the door to the restaurant swung wide. “See, I told you she was here!” Nicolina Maria Spinelli Rienzi tap-tap-tapped her away across the floor in a pair of heels that were far too impractical for restaurant work. “Where's my girl?” she shrieked, holding her arms open as she tottered toward me.

I wiped my mouth and jumped to my feet, hoping I wouldn't have to catch her if she fell off those shoes. “Hi, Mom.” I gave her a kiss and was enveloped by a cloud of floral scent as I was pressed to my mother's generous bosom. She reached over and squeezed my face. “We don't
see
you enough!”
Oy
, I thought.
Here we go.

“Well, that's about to change. I'll be here for a whole year.”
If my sanity holds out.
I looked down at my mother's pretty, suspiciously unlined face.
May I look so good at her age
, I thought. Though I had inherited her light olive complexion, her eyes were a deep brown. At almost sixty, my mother still sported lots of hair and even more cleavage—another area in which we differed.

My mom pushed my bangs aside and scrutinized my hastily assembled “style”—my shoulder-length hair twisted into a clip on the back of my head. “You could use a few highlights, honey.”

I lifted a strand of her stiffly sprayed locks. “I think you have enough for both of us.” My mother and I had both started out with the same dark blond hair, but over the years hers had ranged from platinum to auburn to everything in between. This month's choice was a more natural color, but there was nothing natural about her wild mass of waves, half of which were extensions. Under all that hair, though, was a brain as sharp as her acrylic nails. A trained accountant, my mom managed the finances of the restaurant and those of the family. I glanced down at her red tunic top, worn over black tights. “You're rocking those leggings, Mom.”

“Thanks, hon.” She held out a still shapely leg. “They're the latest thing.”

“Doesn't she look great?” My dad reached over and pulled my mom into a sideways hug. Whereas my mom jumped on each new fashion trend, my dad remained frozen in 1965—a choice that put him right in style these days. He wore a short-sleeved knit shirt, sharply creased sharkskin trousers, and brown Italian loafers. The ensemble was topped off by a straw fedora, set at a rakish angle on his head. “Hi, Daddy.” I smiled into Danny's face twenty-five years on.

“Hey, baby. Great to have you back.” He folded me into a quick hug, but lost no time in dutifully kissing his mother as well. “Hey, Ma,” he said. “Smells great.”

Though they declined something to eat, setting off a prolonged exchange with my grandmother, my parents joined us at the table. In seconds, my brother was on his feet. “Hate to interrupt the reunion, but I gotta get back to the station.” He sent me a wink, and I shook my head at him. The traitor.

My dad pushed my plate toward me. “Finish eating. Now that you're home, we can put some meat on those bones.” Nonna made a rumbling sound of assent. Her own silence was killing her, and I wondered how long she could keep it up.

My dad patted my free hand. “Honey, we are so pleased that you've decided to take your rightful place here at the restaurant.” I wondered why no one bugged Danny to take
his
rightful place at the restaurant. I guess being a police detective, as opposed to a writer, was considered a real job.

“Daddy, working here is just temporary. You understand that, right? I'm here for research.” I was conscious of my grandmother's eyes burning holes into me; I felt like a dry leaf under a magnifying glass in the sun.

“Frank, darling, we can talk about all that later,” my mom said. She linked her arm through mine, seriously compromising my ability to finish the rest of those cavatelli. “It is so wonderful to have you back with us. I can't wait to catch up on all our girl talk. We'll be Nikki and Vicki again!”

I winced, hoping it didn't show. “Listen, Mom, before you go out and get us matching outfits—”

“Oh, and I told Gale down at the library that you'd do a reading or a signing, or something. And the book group has
Molto Murder
slated for its June pick, so I think they'd like you to lead the discussion. And we're so excited about the new release!” She stopped to take a breath, her heavily lashed eyes fluttering under the weight of her mascara. “Now, what else did I want to tell you?” She tapped a fuchsia-painted fingernail against her cheek. “Oh well, I'll think of it later. But in the meantime,” Mom went on, “you're just in time for the rally.”

Somewhere in the dark recesses of my mind, a tiny red flag was waving. “What rally?”

“I left a message on your Facebook, hon. Don't you remember?” She produced a newspaper clipping from her purse and shook it at me. “You're the one who inspired it.”

I looked from my mom to my dad to my grandmother. “I'm lost here.”

My grandmother cleared her throat loudly. “It's about that show.”

“What do you know?” I said. “She speaks.” I narrowed my eyes at her. She wasn't going to scare me. Much. “You want to explain, Nonna?”

“That show with the
puttanas
,” she said, using the Italian word for, shall we say, loose women.

“That awful reality show.” My mom held up the clipping. “You know, honey, the one you wrote to the
Times
about.”

As a professional milestone, having a letter published in the
Times
was second only to signing my first book contract. Glints of light were beginning to shine through the darkness. Last year RealTV premiered a reality show about the escapades of a group of twentysomethings at a Jersey Shore rental a few miles from Oceanside. Their antics gave the rest of the nation a somewhat skewed view of our beloved coastline, so I felt called upon to correct that impression. Not that it mattered, since the show was a runaway hit. “You mean the letter I wrote about
The Jersey Side
?”

“We were so proud of you, honey,” my dad said, beaming at me. “How you talked about our heritage and what the shore meant to you and—”

But I was allowed about a nanosecond to bask in my father's praise before my grandmother interrupted, pounding her fist down on the table. “They think we'll put up with their filth and their shenanigans. This is a family town. Let them take their dirt up north, where it belongs.”

“Wow, Nonna, that's the most you've said since I walked in.” I grinned at her. “Actually,
Filth and Shenanigans
would make a great title for a reality show.”

In answer, she crossed her arms and grunted, lowering her thick brows at me disapprovingly. At this rate, I wouldn't be in her good graces long enough to learn how to boil water for pasta.

“Anyway, honey,” my mom said, “the producer, Gio Parisi, has taken a rental here for the summer. They're scouting locations for filming, and we're worried the town might actually let them.”

“God, I hope not,” I said. “I came here to work. This place gets crazy enough in the summer.” I shuddered at the thought of tourist caravans streaming into our little town to gawk at the kids from
The
Jersey Side
. I shook my head. “I can't imagine that Oceanside will let them film here.”

“We hope not,” my dad said. “But we need to get our message out there.” He leaned forward eagerly. “Tomorrow, Parisi and a couple of the stars are making an appearance on the boardwalk, so we're holding a rally out here in response.”

“When you say ‘here,'” I said slowly, “do you mean
here
?” I pointed down at the floor.