From Mangia to Murder (A Sophia Mancini ~ Little Italy Mystery)

by Mickelson, Caroline

  Sophia stirred her coffee, her mind awhirl with questions. She felt frustrated and disappointed listening to the captain’s conversations. How foolish. What had she expected? To see bloodstained clothing? To hear a confession?

  “I don’t think we learned anything from all of those interviews.”

  “We?” The captain took a long sip of his coffee, his eyes not leaving hers.

  His Irish brogue was attractive, warm and comfortable. His tone of voice, however, left much to be desired.

  “Okay, I’ll speak for myself then. With everyone giving us a different version of what happened, it’s impossible to make sense of it all.” She sighed. “I didn’t learn one useful piece of information. Don’t tell me that you did either.”

  “I did indeed.”

  That was all he said, his silence daring her to ask. Her pride and her curiosity battled it out for a moment. Curiosity won.

  “And what was that, Captain McIntyre. Or can’t you tell me?”

  “You heard for yourself, Miss Mancini. Everyone claimed to have seen dozens of others go into the kitchen. That means that someone here went into the kitchen, murdered Vincenzo, and came back out again knowing that no one would find it out of the ordinary.”

  Sophia’s eyes widened. “You mean the murderer just walked in there as bold as brass?”

  “Very likely.”

  “But there’s a back door in the kitchen,” she protested. She desperately didn’t want to believe that someone at the party was capable of murder. It wasn’t possible. “Surely someone could have come in that way.”

  “It’s possible, yes, but unlikely. When you went in the kitchen, you used the door from the dining room?”

  “Yes, of course. Everyone did.”

  “Did Vincenzo turn around when you entered through that door?”

  She thought back for a moment. “No. He didn’t. He was bent over a stack of papers--the books I’d assume. He didn’t turn around. He just yelled at me to go away.”

  “And don’t you think that if someone had entered the alley door he’d have likely looked up to see who it was?”

  It was so patently obvious when he put it like that. Vincenzo had been stabbed in the back, which meant someone must have snuck up on him. He was a large man capable of fending off almost anyone, but there didn’t appear to have been a struggle. Or else he’d seen who it was and, perceiving no threat, turned his back on them.

  A fatal mistake. Her horror at the realization must have shown on her face.

  “You’re right to be taking this seriously. Murder is grim business.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice, his words still intense. “I don’t want to hear one word that you’re involved in this in any way, Miss Mancini. Do you understand me? This is a police matter.”

  Sophia sat back in her chair.

  “As you are aware, Captain McIntyre, my brother and I are partners in a private detective agency.”

  “You don’t have a client with an interest in the matter, do you?”

  Her silence answered for her.

  He stood. “Mind my word then, and don’t let me hear you have asked one person even one question about this murder. Not one.”

  Chapter Seven

  There was an unspoken agreement amongst the women in Little Italy that no widow should mourn alone.

  How exactly this would work in Stella Moretti’s case, Sophia had no idea. She dug through her dressing table drawer in search of her rosary. How had Stella reacted when she’d been told of her husband’s murder? Doubtless she was delighted to be a widow, but it still must have come as a shock to hear that Vincenzo had been murdered.

  Or had it?

  Had Angelo really seen Stella at the restaurant? Or was his memory confusing someone else with Vincenzo’s wife? If Stella had been there, why hadn’t she come to say hello? Or had she been there to see Vincenzo?

  Sophia slammed the drawer shut. Was it a sin to not have a clue where your rosary was? Probably. A vision of Sister Adelaide, her fifth grade teacher, flashed before her eyes. She could hear Sister’s disapproving voice as clearly as if it were yesterday, ‘If you even have to ask, Sophia, you may safely consider it a sin.’

  Who had told Stella about the murder?

  She’d have to keep her ears open and see what she could learn at Mass.

  A knock on the bedroom door startled her. She opened it to find Angelo neatly turned out in a navy blue suit.

  “Sis, we’ve got a problem.”

  “What is it? Can’t find your rosary?”

  “Very funny.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out two, one his, one hers.

  She took hers and slipped it in her dress pocket. “Thank you. What’s the matter?”

  “It’s Luciano. He’s got a fever.” He held up a hand. “Don’t panic. He’s probably just warm, but I don’t want to drag him to Mass if he’s not feeling well. I’ve got to find someone to watch him.”

  She didn’t have to ask why he didn’t ask Grandpa. Grandpa never, ever missed a wake, a rosary, or a funeral. Friend, enemy, or stranger, it didn’t matter. Grandpa was there.

  “I think you’d better stay here with him in case Mrs. Featherstone drops by. Let me come take a look at him.” She grabbed her black lace headscarf, black gloves, and handbag, and followed him downstairs.

  Luciano had only a slight fever.

  “I think he’ll be fine if you keep him warm and full of liquids. I’ll ask Francesca to come by after Mass to see if you need help.” She reached down and kissed her nephew’s forehead. “Be a good boy for Papa.”

  “What about our appointment with...ummm...” Angelo snapped his fingers. “Wait, don’t tell me. I know this--”

  “Frankie Vidoni.” Sophia pulled on her gloves. “I’ll go for the both of us.”

  “I don’t like the idea of you going there alone. Can’t we reschedule?”

  “No chance. If he wants to hire us, then we need to say yes. Today.” She reached down and tucked a blanket around Luciano, who was already drifting back to sleep. She lowered her voice. “We’re running out of time.”

  Uncertainty paraded across Angelo’s face. He looked down at his sleeping son, and then back at her. “That’s one thing I can’t forget. Okay, go see Vidoni but take someone with you. Ask Andrea or--”

  “Andiamo,” their grandfather called from the front door. “Come, Sophia. We want to get good seats.”

  ***

  Vincenzo’s salvation should have been foremost on Sophia’s mind during Mass, but all she could think about was his assassinio. Who plunged that knife into Vincenzo’s back?

  She knelt and tried to focus on the priest’s voice. Concentrating during Mass had always been hard for her. She’d always blamed the Latin. Today she blamed the murder.

  It wasn’t as if death was new to her. As part of a big Italian-American family, she understood the cycle of life. Babies came into the family, welcomed with joy. Older relatives passed away, sent on with prayerful tears petitioning for their eternal reward. And then there had been the war. The last five years had taken far too many young men from among them, but those were lives given in noble sacrifice. Murder was anything but noble.

  When the priest asked the parishioners to bow their heads in prayer, Sophia stole a glance around. As Vincenzo’s widow, estranged or not, Stella sat up front and center amongst her relatives. This wasn’t Vincenzo’s funeral Mass, but it was the start of days of mourning that would culminate in his burial. The shock, or novelty, of Vincenzo’s death was the reason St. Catherine’s pews were unusually full.

  Did Vincenzo have a family? She couldn’t remember hearing about one. Perhaps they weren’t up front with Stella, but sitting elsewhere in the church. But if they were present they were doing an amazing job of hiding their grief. As far as she could see, no one was crying, sobbing, distraught, or even mildly disturbed.

  Sophia let her eyes roam over those assembled in prayer. Something wasn’t right. Someone was missing. Where was Eugene? A
s Vincenzo’s business partner, wouldn’t common courtesy dictate that he be here? Perhaps he was sitting toward the back. She turned around, her eyes scanning the parishioners behind her.

  She spotted Eugene in the back pew. He sat alone, his eyes staring at the ceiling, his expression unreadable. Oh, what she wouldn’t give to know what he was thinking about right now.

  She turned to look over her other shoulder and did a double take when she spotted a single figure standing at the back of the church. It took her only a second to recognize Captain McIntyre. Instead of a baseball or police uniform, he wore a dark suit. He stood slightly in the shadows, but she’d know those broad shoulders anywhere. When he nodded in her direction, Sophia spun back around and bowed her head, feeling caught in the act.

  What was Captain McIntyre doing here? St. Catherine’s was a predominately Italian-American parish and she doubted he’d come all this way to receive Holy Communion.

  When Mass was over, Sophia made her way out of the church and lingered on the steps, waiting for her chance to express her condolences to the widow. When it was her turn, she hugged Stella.

  “I’m sorry.” The words seemed inadequate, but what did one say to a woman who just lost the man she hated?

  “Thank you, Sophia.” The black lace veil Stella wore hid her face and made it impossible to tell how she was holding up. Was the veil hiding grief, relief, or guilt?

  Sophia turned to leave but Stella grabbed her hand. “Wait,” Stella pleaded in a low voice. “I need a favor.”

  “Of course. What can I do?” If Stella didn’t release the death grip on her hand soon, Sophia was going to have bruises.

  Stella leaned close enough to whisper. “Come with me to the ristorante later. I need to go into Vincenzo’s apartment, but I’m afraid to go alone. Please.”

  Her pleading tone surprised Sophia. It made more sense that Stella would ask one of her family members to go with her, but if it was that important, she’d do it.

  “Yes, I’ll go with you. Do you know when--”

  “Thank you, thank you. Can you meet me outside of Vincenzo’s at four o’clock? That should give us plenty of time before the rosary tonight.”

  Plenty of time for what? She opened her mouth to ask, but Stella had already turned to speak with someone else.

  “Sophia, psst, over here.”

  She whirled around. Behind the statue of the Virgin Mother she caught sight of a hand--a hand with flashy red fingernails and no less than three cocktail rings--a sharp contrast to the Virgin’s simple stone robes.

  “Maria?” Sophia peeked around the statue. “What are you doing hiding back here?”

  Maria Acino reached out and grabbed ahold of Sophia’s elbow. “Shhh, lower your voice. Come with me.”

  Sophia allowed herself to be dragged around the side of the church. When they reached the gate to St. Catherine’s schoolyard Sophia drew to a halt. “Maria, stop. What is the matter with you?”

  Maria looked around nervously. “Do you think we’re alone?”

  Sophia couldn’t see anyone. She nodded. “It’s just you, me, the angels and saints. Now why are you acting like this?”

  “I wanted to talk to you for a moment. About what happened at Vincenzo’s.”

  Sophia’s heart raced with excitement. She leaned closer. “What did you see?”

  “See?” Maria asked, a bewildered look on her face. “I didn’t see anything.”

  “What did you hear then?”

  “Nothing.”

  Sophia shook her head. Maria was wasting her time, and she needed to get to Frankie’s for her appointment. Still, something about Maria’s demeanor was off. She’d only known Maria a couple of days, and not well at that, but this didn’t seem like the cocky, assured woman she thought Maria to be.

  “What are you afraid of?” Sophia surprised herself with the question, but it appeared to hit home.

  “Afraid? Oh, God, it shows?” Maria dug in her pocketbook for a cigarette and lighter. Her hands shook as she lit one and took a long drag. “I just wanted to talk to you about that day we met at Vincenzo’s. Remember, it was just you and me and Vincenzo?”

  “And Eugene.”

  Maria waved her hand dismissively. “Eugene doesn’t count.”

  In the interest of time, Sophia decided not to argue the point. “What about that day?”

  “We need to get our stories straight.” She eyed Sophia. “You know, for when the police question us again.”

  “I don’t have anything to tell them. I didn’t hear what you and Vincenzo were talking about. I was inside with Eugene, remember?”

  Maria nodded. “But you saw us talking and Vincenzo looked upset.”

  “Vincenzo always looked upset about something.” She was about to add that this had been part of his charm, but she had enough respect for the dead to leave it unsaid. “Don’t worry, Maria. I have nothing to tell the police about that day, so you can calm down.”

  Maria chewed her lip. “I just don’t know what to do.”

  “Why not ask Frankie for advice?”

  Maria’s eyes widened. “No, I don’t want to cause any trouble for Frankie. My job is to make his life easier.”

  Her job? Is that how a mistress described a love affair? She knew she shouldn’t ask.

  “Your job?” She couldn’t help herself.

  Maria took another long drag on her cigarette. “Yeah, you know, as Frankie’s fiancée.”

  Sophia eyed the other woman warily. “You do know that Frankie’s wife is still alive, don’t you?”

  Maria shrugged. “No one lives forever.”

  There was nowhere productive this conversation could go.

  “Just tell the police whatever it was that you were talking about. There’s no need to hide anything. Is there?”

  In answer, Maria threw her cigarette down and ground it out. She exhaled a long stream of smoke, tugged at her blouse, straightened her skirt, and flashed Sophia a rather pasted-on smile.

  “There’s always a little something to hide when talking to the police, don’t you think?”

  ***

  Sophia made it to the Vidoni front gate with half a minute to spare. Frankie’s home was high atop a hill that overlooked Little Italy without actually being a part of it. Fortunately for her, the local bus line provided service halfway up the hill. The other half she’d walked.

  White iron gates with an enormous letter V on each side stood closed before her. She looked around for a gatehouse, but didn’t see one. Frustration welled within her, but she quickly realized the futility of it. As private detectives, she and Angelo were doubtless going to run into more than a few locked doors. She might as well get used to it. But there was no way she was turning back without a contract in hand, even if it meant she had to go over the wall to get it.

  She smiled. There was an idea.

  She walked along the sidewalk, assessing the wall. Red brick pillars anchored the gate but, fortunately for her, they tapered off to a modest four feet at the lowest point. Four feet she could handle. She dropped her pocketbook and shoes over the wall. With a quick glance around to make sure the street was deserted, Sophia took a leap and, bracing her arms, swung one leg so that she was straddling the wall. She swung the other leg over and jumped down, her earlier frustration having given way to a sense of satisfaction. Reading all those Nancy Drew mysteries might actually pay off.

  And, after all, no one had seen her.

  ***

  “Your creative entrance was most impressive, Miss Mancini.”

  Sophia tried not to look surprised. “Thank you, Mr. Vidoni.”

  “I must confess, it was a bit of a test, to see how you handled a road block.” Frankie sat back in his burgundy leather chair and rested his elbows on its arms. His fingers created a steeple and his gaze was direct. “I was expecting your brother to accompany you.”

  “Angelo was needed elsewhere. Please rest assured that anything you wish to discuss with Angelo, you can discuss with
me.”

  “So you are not solely functioning as Mr. Mancini’s secretary then?”

  “No. My brother and I have always worked as a team.”

  “I see. And you two believe that you have what it takes to handle private matters for a client with speed and discretion?”

  “Of course.” Sophia wasn’t enjoying the back and forth, cat and mouse nature of the conversation. She glanced around the luxuriously appointed room. It looked like a banker’s office--a well-appointed banker’s office, at that. As she had been shown in, Sophia had been surprised by how elegantly the Vidoni home appeared to be decorated. She had expected something more garish--some place that Maria Acino would fit right in.

  She turned her attention back to Frankie. ”Let’s talk business. What can we do for you?”

  Frankie smiled, a not altogether pleasant expression. He leaned forward.

  “Find Vincenzo’s killer.”

  “Why?”

  The question appeared to throw him. “What?”

  “Why do you care who killed Vincenzo?”

  His eyebrows rose. Polite and ladylike was fine for off-duty hours, but frank and direct was the new professional demeanor she’d decided to adopt on the long walk up to the house.

  “I’d like to know what your interest in the matter is.”

  He drummed his fingers against the desk for several moments. Finally he spoke. “The community we live in is my--how to phrase this--area of interest.”

  Translation: Little Italy was his territory.

  “Anything that happens there is of great interest to me.”

  Translation: I don’t want to look foolish having a murder happen under my nose unless I ordered it.

  “I want to hire you and your brother to find the killer before the police do.”

  Sophia hesitated. Last night, after she and Angelo had returned home, they’d stayed up late talking--about the party, about the murder, and about their appointment with Frankie and the possibility of working for him. With the looming court date, and the need to be gainfully employed, they both agreed taking the case, if asked, was the only reasonable choice.

  She snapped open her pocketbook and removed an envelope. She slid it across the desk.