Murder and Marinara (21 page)

I had no doubt of that. So now I had about forty-eight hours to find Gio Parisi's murderer. Or to get Robert De Niro on the phone.

T
he next morning officially kicked off Memorial Day weekend, and a reprieve for the Casa Lido hovered tantalizingly near. But only if we could prove that Parisi took something that caused his fatal heart attack, most likely in tandem with the beta blockers he was already prescribed. Did the dead man habitually carry his medicine? Or did he take it at home and leave it in a medicine chest where anyone (and by “anyone,” I meant Angie) could have substituted something else for it? But how easily could that be done? How could the Black Widow have obtained the drug, for example? There were still so many missing pieces, the most important being what the police knew about Parisi's meds. I was about to risk a phone call to my brother when Sofia's number appeared on my phone.

“Listen, Vic,” she said. “I've done every people search imaginable online, and I can't find Emily Haverford. At least not one fitting the description of
our
Emily Haverford. There're only two in New Jersey. One's a baby and the other died last year.”

“Did you try some other states?”

“New York and Connecticut. It didn't make sense to look anywhere else. She told you she'd known Parisi for years, and he's got two addresses, one in New York and one in north Jersey. If she saw him on a regular basis, she'd have to live somewhere nearby, right?”

“True. But I think we should do a countrywide search just to make sure.”

“Well, I also did a reverse lookup on the phone number on her business card. It's a cell phone in Ocean County, which argues that she's living in Jersey. I'll do a US search, but I doubt I'll get anything. Let's face it, SIL. There's only one logical explanation: The woman who came to the restaurant is using a fake name. Which means she has something to hide.”

“It could be that she's married. Maybe she was living a double life, carrying on an affair with Parisi using another name.”

Sofie's tone was doubtful. “What makes you think that?”

“Don't forget, Angie knows her as ‘Emily.' The guy in Ocean Grove heard her use that name. If that's not her real name, she's been using that alias for a while.”

“It all sounds sketchy to me. I think you should try that phone number on her card.”

“That's a good idea. I could call her on the pretext that I've got more information about Parisi's death.”

“And then get more information about
her
. Keep me posted.”

As soon as I ended Sofia's call, I tried the number Emily Haverford gave me, only to get her voice mail, in which she identified herself as “Emily.” I was beginning to agree with my sister-in-law—there
was
something sketchy about the woman calling herself Emily Haverford.

Would Danny tell me anything at all? In my desperate state, it was worth a try.

“What is it, Vic?” His voice held suspicion, impatience, and a small note of warning.

“Can you talk?” I whispered.

“Yes. Why are
you
whispering?”

“Good question, since I'm alone in the cottage.” I hesitated, knowing I could be compromising him with this call. “Look, Dan, I know I said I wouldn't—”

“You can stop right there, sis. I heard all about Sutton showing up at the restaurant.”

I winced. “You did?”

“We all did—my fellow officers, my chief, the mayor—you name 'em, they heard it.”

“Oh, shi . . . shoot. I'm sorry, Danny.”

“Can't be helped,” he said shortly.

For some reason, I was whispering again. “So I guess this means that if, for example, I had a question about Parisi's medication, you couldn't answer it.”

“Got it in one, kid.”

“Or,” I continued, “if I wanted to know about Parisi's stomach contents. Or Emily Haverford's real name.”

I heard him sigh loudly. “Listen, Vic, I know that Nonna's on your back about this. But you have to stop this little investigation you've got going—and that includes my wife.”

“But, Danny, you don't understand. I—”

And what was I to say?
I have a theory that hinges on information you can't give me. Oh, and I just found a foxglove plant in the garden, and it's poisonous, in case you didn't know.
Of course, the police might already have this information. But if they didn't, and I told Danny, he'd have no choice
but
to tell them. And he was already in some hot water.

“
What
don't I understand?” His question came out as a snarl.

“Nothing, okay? Don't go all ‘bad cop' on me.” I looked out my window at the peaceful blue sky and calm gray ocean. “There's just one thing I have to ask, Dan. Is there even a chance that Tim could be arrested for this?”

The silence that stretched out between us said it all.

•   •   •

When I got on my bike that morning, I didn't head in the direction of the restaurant, but toward the other end of town to a place I hadn't visited in more than eight years. As I pedaled down the familiar street, the years melted away and I was once again a gangly girl with a desperate crush on an older boy, riding past his house in hopes of a glimpse of him.

I stopped the bike in front of a white seaside colonial with black shutters and a wide porch with tall columns—the house where Tim had grown up. I stood there thinking how different this classic home was in comparison to our two-family house across town. But when I fell in love with Tim, I'd also fallen in love with this house and his elegant, educated parents.

I wheeled the bike down the stone driveway to where I'd find Tim, in the carriage house at the back of the property. Tim had occupied this house on and off since he'd turned eighteen, a fact that scandalized my parents, who firmly believed their children should be under their roof at all times, even after they married. I had a rush of memories as I stood in front of the arched doorway of the cottage; I raised my hand to knock when Tim opened the door.

He was unshaven, wearing pajama pants and a ripped T-shirt bearing the faded letters of the Stone Pony. “Hey,” he said. “I heard your bike on the driveway stones.”

“You used to listen for that sound, once upon a time.”

He rubbed his stubbly chin and smiled slightly. “I remember.”

I followed him into the cottage, unprepared for the mess that met my eyes. Dirty dishes lined the tiny kitchen counter; there were clothes draped over every available surface, and the pullout couch seemed to be serving as both eating
and
sleeping area. I wrinkled my nose. “It smells like boy in here.”

“Thanks, Vic. If I'd known you were coming, I would have tidied up.” He heaved open the small kitchen window, letting in the sweet sea air.

“Much better.” I shifted a pair of jeans and a nachos bag to one side of the bed and sat. “What's up?”

He slumped into the only other seat in the small living room, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “You tell me. Am I fired?”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“Why? It wouldn't be the first time.”

“You know why they fired you the first time.”

He lifted his head and looked at me steadily. “Because I hurt their daughter so bad they couldn't stand to look at me.”

I blinked, surprised to feel the tears. “They forgave you a long time ago, Tim. And right now, I think they just want you to lie low for a while. Until it all blows over.”

“‘Lie low' suggests I did something.” He sat forward in the chair and planted his hands on his knees. “And you know I didn't, Vic.”

I looked at this man I'd known for more than half my life. He was bleary-eyed and stubbly, his hair a mess of unruly curls, yet I still felt a surge of affection (and other things) when I looked at him. I saw a man who'd been my friend and my lover, a man who'd brought me both grief and joy. I saw an indulged only son who had found his calling late in life and had trouble committing either to a woman or a job. He was temperamental and passionate, flirtatious and funny. Tim Trouvare was many things. But he wasn't a murderer.

“You're right. I do.”

He got up from his chair and sat down next to me. “You believe me?” he asked, taking my hand.

I nodded, but slipped my hand from his. “About that I do.” I pushed the curls back from his forehead. “I don't think you're capable of killing anybody. Unless perhaps they got in your way in the kitchen.”

He grinned, making my heart do a little somersault. But then his face grew serious. “This doesn't look good for me, Vic.” He stood abruptly and started pacing the length of the small room. “
I
served the guy his last meal.
I
washed his plates afterward.”

“And you had a history with his wife,” I added, a bit more acerbically than I intended.

Tim plopped back into the chair, both arms hanging at his sides. “Right. You don't need to remind me.”

“I think maybe I do, Tim.”

He frowned. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means that when I asked you about Angie, you implied you'd seen her only one time before Parisi came into the restaurant. But you'd had more contact with her than that. I saw you on the phone with her.”

“Well, yeah, there were some phone calls.” He hesitated.

“And despite what you told me, she'd been to the restaurant more than once, right?”

Tim blinked and squirmed as though there were a white light shining in his face. “Yeah, maybe a couple of times.”

Funny how those words—
a couple of times
—could propel me back eight years in time to this very room. To the night Tim confessed he'd fallen in love with somebody else. Back then the pain had had a knife-edge so sharp, it took my breath away; now it was simply a dull ache. But it hadn't gone away. “That night in the pantry,” I said, “I asked you if you'd been involved—”

“You meant was I sleeping with her,” he interrupted. “And the answer is no.” He came over to where I was sitting and knelt at my feet, his hands resting on my knees. “She and I were done a long time ago, Vic. If she cheated on her husband, it wasn't with me.”

I let out a breath I'd been holding, and he sat down next to me at the edge of the bed. But I slid over a couple of inches so I wouldn't get distracted by his leg touching mine. “All right, Tim,” I said. “Help me here. Why do you think she contacted you in the first place?”

“I'm not sure. A sympathetic ear, maybe? Male attention?” He smiled grimly. “She likes male attention.”

“Tell me something I don't know. Did she confide in you?”

He nodded. “A little. She would talk about Parisi. They fought a lot. She said he was verbally abusive.”

“That doesn't surprise me,” I said. “But forgive me if my heart doesn't exactly break for her. She knew what she was getting into.”

“She also suspected he was seeing the old girlfriend again.”

“Emily Haverford.”

Tim frowned. “Is that her name? How do you know it? She never mentioned it to me.”

I struggled with how much to tell Tim. I wasn't sure if he knew how deeply I was insinuating myself into this case; he might try to talk me into dropping it or, worse, allowing him to help me. Some instinct told me not to share my conversation with Emily. I looked at him and shrugged. “You hear things. So basically, Angie was crying on your big, strong shoulder. Is that it?”

“I guess. But she was interested in what I was doing, too.”

I'll bet
. “What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, she heard I was at the restaurant. She wanted to come down and see where I worked.”

More likely to case the joint
, I thought.
And to set you up, Tim.
I wanted to lay my father's odds that Angie had found some way to poison Parisi
before
he got to the restaurant, but I couldn't indulge in too much wishful thinking. Not as long as that foxglove plant occupied the Casa Lido garden.

I heard Tim say something; then he waved a hand in front of my face. “Hey? You in there, Vic?”

“Sorry. My mind's in a million places. Did you ask me something?”

“Yeah. Do they know how Parisi died? I haven't read anything about an autopsy.”

“I'm pretty sure the investigators are keeping that quiet. They know it was his heart, but something caused the fatal attack. Toxicology screens take a long time.”

“Danny must know something.”

I shook my head. “That well is dry, my friend.” I hesitated and then made a decision. “Tim, what do you know about the garden behind the restaurant?”

“Um, I get my herbs there. And we harvest the tomatoes in August. That's about it.”

“What about the other plants? Do you know the different flowers Nonna's got out there?”

He wrinkled his brow in a manner I found adorable. “Should I?” he asked.

“No, actually. In fact, it's better if you don't. But there's a plant out there that's poisonous. And there's a substance in it that can cause heart attacks.”

Tim held up both hands. “I did not put a
thing
in that guy's food.”

“I know that, Tim. But the prosecutor's office doesn't have my faith in you.”

“What?” The word came out in a whisper.

“I had a visit from the county prosecutor, Regina Sutton. She said that the ‘persons of interest' in the case all seem to be connected to the Casa Lido. It's likely we're all gonna get pulled in for questioning. It's also likely they know that plant is out there and that we had access to it.”

Tim dropped his head and raked his hands through his hair. “God, my life is over,” he said.

I grabbed his arm. “Look. There's nothing definite about any of this. Okay, right now everyone's assuming there was something in his food. But there might have been another way he died. Something I'm looking into.”