by Rosie Genova
“Come say hi to Roberta. You won’t recognize her. She dropped a ton,” he said in a confiding voice.
In my periphery I could see the tall figure of Elizabeth Merriman, now dressed in a beaded gown. She was speaking to a tall man in dark glasses, their heads close together. She’d never see me from that corner, but I didn’t want to take a chance. “I’d love to,” I said, “but I’m really not dressed for a wedding. I just wanted a peek at the ballroom. I should really get back.” But before I could take a step, there was Elizabeth, now frowning furiously in my direction. Leading with her cane, she headed straight for me.
“Young woman,” Elizabeth Merriman rapped out, “what do you think you’re doing out here among the guests?”
Though Dr. Chickie flinched, he gallantly stepped in. “Now, Elizabeth. Victoria is the daughter of an old friend. I was just bringing her over to say hello to Roberta.”
“She belongs in the kitchen!” Elizabeth tapped her cane on the floor for emphasis. “Not out here in my ballroom. She can say hello to Roberta some other time.” She squinted at Dr. Chickie, either because she couldn’t see him or wanted to intimidate him. “You’re lucky you’re here, Charles.” She gestured with her cane, narrowly missing my ankles. I stepped closer to Brenda, who was clinging to Dr. Chickie’s arm like a barnacle. “It’s only through my good auspices that you’re even on the premises, and don’t you forget it.” She cocked her head to one side, attempting to focus her cloudy eyes on the Natales.
Dr. Chickie tugged on his collar, as though it had grown too tight. Brenda was gripping his arm so hard her knuckles were white. And suddenly, my curiosity was on high alert. What was going on here? And then I remembered something Elizabeth had said back in the kitchen: that after tonight, Dr. Natale would no longer be a member of the Belmont Club.
“Now, Elizabeth,” Dr. Chickie said quietly, his voice shaking, “this is not the time or place for this discussion.”
She leaned both hands on her cane and her mouth cracked in a tight smile. “You’re right about that, Charles. Because this discussion will be taking place in court, won’t it?” Still propped against her cane, she swung around to me. “You, girl, get back to that kitchen.” With that, she turned her back on us and made her slow way back through the guests.
“Listen, guys,” I said. “I should get out of here. I’ll try to catch Roberta another time. Would you mind pointing me to the bar?” But as neither of them was paying attention to me, I slipped out the way I had come, Elizabeth Merriman’s words echoing in my head: This discussion will be taking place in court.
Chapter Four
By the time I found the bar, I was sorely in need of a drink, and the smells of the food in that kitchen had whetted my appetite. As Tim had promised, the bar was full of that “historic crap” I love. Out on the floor, leather chairs with brass rivets sat on either side of small oak tables, and high-backed chairs with matching leather seats lined the bar. I sat down in one with a sigh, and a middle-aged woman behind the antique walnut bar pushed a bowl of nuts in front of me.
“What’ll you have, hon?” she asked.
“Any wine you pour that’s dry, white, and cold,” I said, taking an unladylike handful of almonds. “Oh, and do you have a bar menu?”
“Sure thing.” She slid a leather-covered portfolio across the bar, then provided me with a generous pouring of chardonnay.
I took a sip and closed my eyes. “Ah, nectar of the gods.” I opened the menu, fully intending to get a salad until the siren call of carbs caught me. “Could I have the goat-cheese pizza, please?”
“Good choice,” the bartender said. She reached for the menu, revealing a small horse tattoo on her wrist. “I take it you’re not a wedding guest?”
I shook my head and held out the wrinkled lapels of my blouse. “Can’t you tell? No, I’m here with two other chefs from our restaurant, the Casa Lido. We catered the soup course.”
“Oh, that means you had to deal with Iron Lady. My sympathies.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Sally, by the way.”
“Victoria. And now I understand that,” I said, pointing to her wrist. “It’s a mustang, yes?”
She winked at me, making a giddyup motion with her wrists. “Ride, Sally, ride,” she sang. Then she ran a hand through her cropped, flame-colored hair and grinned. “At least I did in my younger days. Let me put that pie order in for you,” she said, and disappeared through a door behind the bar.
“Separate kitchen, I assume,” I said when she returned.
Sally nodded. “Yup. Separate staff, too. We’re not super fancy over here.”
I smiled at the image of Chef Etienne turning out bar pies. “I imagine the kitchen staff at the bar has to be easier to work with.”
“Oh yeah.” Sally wiped down my section of the bar and refilled the nuts. “I mean, Chef Etienne’s okay—kinda hot, too, in a Frenchy sort of way. But he gets a bug up his nose about something and forget it. He does know how to handle Elizabeth, though; I’ll say that for him. Not like that crazy Kate. Sheesh.”
“You mean the pastry chef, right? Kate Bridges?”
“There’s only one Crazy Kate. Been here a month and managed to piss everybody off, especially Elizabeth.” Sally leaned in close, lowering her voice. “I just think there’s something off about her, ya know? I mean, what’s with all that makeup? Sure don’t improve her looks any. And it seems like she deliberately antagonizes Elizabeth.”
Maybe it was the writer in me, but right now my curiosity was sharper than my appetite. While Sally worked, I struggled with my conscience. If Elizabeth knew the club’s employees were inclined to gossip with strangers, she’d throw a fit, and probably throw Sally out the door, but I couldn’t help myself. I had to know what was going on here. I gave it another few minutes and a few more sips of wine before I spoke. “I would think it’s pretty easy to antagonize Elizabeth Merriman,” I said. “It’s clear she has her own way of doing things at the club, and woe to you if you get in her way.”
But before Sally could answer me, the door swung open and a waiter emerged with my pizza. As I contemplated the warm goat cheese, sautéed spinach, and caramelized onions sitting on a fragrant wood-fired crust, the urge to stuff my mouth fought with the urge to open it and ask more questions. Luckily, the pizza was too hot to eat, and Sally seemed inclined to talk. She pointed to the chardonnay and I nodded, hoping a second glass wouldn’t impair my ability to ice Nonna’s cookies.
“So, you all set?” Sally asked, rubbing her hands together.
“Yes, thanks. As long as I don’t run into Iron Lady again.”
Sally grinned. “Hey, stay far enough away and she won’t even see ya.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I think all her other senses are heightened. She sniffed me out in the ballroom just now.”
“Well, that’s the truth. Nothin’ gets by her.” She jerked her head in the direction of the ballroom. “That’s how she found out Father of the Bride out there was cooking the books.”
Cooking the books? I dropped my head and cut into the pie, my mind racing. Elizabeth’s comment about court now took on a sharp clarity, as did the Natales’ fear. As treasurer of the club, had Dr. Chickie dipped his hand into the till? A wedding at the Belmont wasn’t cheap. And Dr. Chickie was part of my dad’s circle of high rollers we called the Rat Pack. Had his gambling pushed him into embezzlement? This is not your problem, Vic, I told myself. And because I still had a long night ahead of me, I fortified myself with a bite of pizza and a slug of wine.
Just then, a tall man with dark hair and sunglasses walked into the bar, followed by a slighter, shorter man. The taller man appeared to be the guy I’d seen in the ballroom with Elizabeth. Up close, I noticed his military haircut, cropped even shorter than my brother Danny’s regulation police cut. The man’s erect bearing and straight spine added to the impression of a military man. By comparison, the smaller man trailing behind him was rumpled and sported a thick head of wild gray hair. His slumped shoul
ders suggested submission, possibly resignation. He was also much older, by at least ten or fifteen years. The two sat at a table behind me, and the tall one motioned to Sally, who merely nodded.
She pulled a beer and a soda from the cooler and brought it to their table, along with a bowl of nuts. When she came back, she leaned in close again and whispered, “Do you know who the dude in the dark glasses is?”
“No,” I said, resisting the urge to turn around.
Sally raised a knowing eyebrow. “The Iron Lady’s boy toy. Jack Toscano.”
I froze with a piece of pizza halfway to my mouth. “You’re kidding me. He’s my dad’s age, easy.”
“So what? He still almost twenty years younger than her.” She shrugged. “Speaking by comparison, he’s a boy all right. He’s with her all the time. Takes her to plays, drives her around town—you name it.” She lowered her voice again. “Grapevine says she bought him that condo he’s got over on the bay side of town.”
“I saw them in the ballroom together, but I never guessed that. She’s full of surprises.” I inched my chin to the right until I could capture a glimpse of Jack Toscano from the corner of my eye. He was a good-looking man in a rugged, old-movie kind of way, and though he had more lines on his face than my dad, was probably sixtyish. His face had that leathery look that said he’d spent lots of time in the sun. “Is he from down here?” I asked.
“Nah. Just showed up about six months back. But Merriman has him helping her manage the club.”
I gave up any pretense of minding my own business and leaned over the bar. “So, who’s the little guy with him?”
“Don’t know his name, but I recognize him. Can’t miss that Albert Einstein hair.” Sally took a paring knife and set out some lemons and limes. “I don’t think he’s a member; I’ve only ever seen him with Jack, and he always drinks a diet soda.” She motioned with the knife. “Bet you my last tip in the jar he’s a twelve-stepper.” She grinned. “Not that they allow us to have anything as tacky as a tip jar in this fancy outfit.”
Mustang Sally was a wealth of information. (My fictional detective, Bernardo Vitali, would call her a keen observer of the human condition.) But I needed to get back to the kitchen; if anything went wrong with those cookies, Nonna would have my hide. I reached inside my blouse for Tim’s credit card, hoping it wasn’t too sweaty. But Sally waved me away.
“It’s on the house. You’re part of the staff tonight; it’s the least we can do, considering you have to deal with Elizabeth.”
“Thanks, Sally.” I dug in my purse and pulled out a crumpled ten. “For the nonexistent jar,” I said. And for the information, I thought. But I wish you’d told me more about what Dr. Chickie had been up to.
On my way to the kitchen I was arrested by a series of whining groans, a cacophony so loud and dissonant I wanted to clap my hands over my ears. As I approached the ballroom, I spied the source of the noise—not a bunch of cats in heat, but six guys in kilts tuning up their bagpipes. The sound clashed wildly with the wedding band’s version of The Godfather theme blaring from inside the doors. From my vantage point, I could see the cultural split in the room, with all the short, dark people on one side and the large, fair people on the other. My mother will love this one, I thought, and Nonna will make gloomy predictions for the bride who marries outside her tribe.
The kitchen was nearly empty when I got back. A few of Etienne’s crew, including Antoine (who greeted me with a wolf whistle) were cleaning up. Tim was scarfing down a plate of pasta. In the back, the wedding cake sat on linen-covered table, and I could see Kate filling pastries, scowling and muttering as she worked.
“Is she doing that alone?” I asked.
“I offered,” Tim said. “But she wasn’t having it. Gave me a loud lecture about how nobody touches her pastries.” He grimaced. “Like I’d want to touch anything of hers.”
“Hey, that’s just mean.” I glanced over at Kate, who had recently reapplied her orange lipstick.
“C’mon, Vic,” he said. “She looks like one of the Insane Clown Posse.”
“I don’t know. I kinda feel sorry for her.”
“Hey, chick from the Casa Lido!” Kate bellowed. “You gonna get those cookies iced anytime tonight?”
Tim grinned and pointed to a large aluminum bowl set on ice. “The icing’s ready, but it’ll need a couple of minutes to come to room temp. Don’t worry about her—we got plenty of time.”
I took the bowl out of the ice and set the cookies out on a counter Tim had lined with parchment paper. “Tim, can you find me a small spatula? I don’t want to ask her.”
Tim brought back two and uncapped the container of silver balls. “C’mon,” he said. “I’ll help you. I sent Nando home and I’d like to get us out of here.”
“Oh, before I forget.” I took the credit card from my blouse and handed it to him. “I didn’t use it, but thanks.”
“Didn’t you eat?”
“I did indeed. A friend brought me dinner.” I neglected to mention that the friend was female, however, and shot him a look I hoped was mysterious.
“Good for you,” he said cheerfully. He scraped the spatula across the surface of the icing. “It should be soft enough soon.”
Once the icing was ready, Tim and I knocked off the job quickly. I started decorating them and sent Tim out of the kitchen for a break. Chef Etienne’s crew had already cleared out; I was so intent on placing the silver balls in the same triangular pattern for each cookie, I didn’t notice someone else was in the kitchen until I heard raised voices. Kate and the Iron Lady were going at it hammer and tongs.
How had Elizabeth come in without my seeing her? Was there a back entrance somewhere? And what was she even doing in here? I couldn’t hear much of the argument, except for Elizabeth’s final words: “Out! Do you hear me? Out, and I mean it.”
She turned away from Kate and barreled straight toward me. She doesn’t see me yet, I thought, and backed out of her path into a dim corner near the sink. She tapped her cane along the floor, stopping suddenly near the door, lifting her head like a dog with a scent. “Is someone there?”
I flattened myself against the wall. Some instinct told me not to reveal either myself or that I’d overheard their fight. The tapping started again, followed by the whoosh of the kitchen door. I stepped out of my hiding place, only to face Chef Kate Bridges, her hands on her hips, her clown face fierce.
“That old bitch,” she growled. “Somebody oughta put her lights out.”
And before the night was over, somebody did.
Chapter Five
We sat at the family table in the back of the restaurant, the Asbury Park Press spread out in front of us. Despite a morning espresso, I was still groggy from my late night at the wedding reception, and couldn’t quite believe the words in the headline. But my dad helpfully read them aloud.
“’Body of Belmont Club President Found on Beach.’ What a terrible thing,” he said, shaking his head. “And to think you were there last night, hon.”
My mother peered over my dad’s shoulder. “Poor woman. And I know this sounds terrible, but I hope it happened long after all the guests were gone.” She stood up abruptly. “I should give Brenda a call. Excuse me a minute, hon.”
“Dad, could I see that?” I turned the paper so I could read it:
In what appeared to be the result of a fall, Elizabeth Merriman, philanthropist, Belmont Country Club president, and former owner of Merriman Industries, was found dead on the beach below the club early this morning. Ocean County Prosecutor Regina Sutton would not comment except to say that an investigation was already under way . . .
The article went on to describe Merriman’s accomplishments and indicated that she had no known surviving relatives. I let out a long breath; my mind was certainly clear now. If Merriman fell, it had to be due to her eyesight. I wondered if that cane was anywhere near the body. And I couldn’t help the other questions that crept into my brain like thieves. How did she fall, and fro
m what? The answer, of course, depended on where the body was found. I tried to see the building in my mind’s eye. Could she have gone out an open window? The widow’s walk was a possibility, but why would she be out there in the dark with an event going on downstairs? And if she’d fallen from that tower balcony, was it likely the body would end up on the beach? The seawall was also a contender, but would a fall from that height kill her? Was she pushed? If so, how did the murderer get her out there? Who had a motive?
At that one, my head snapped up, and I met my dad’s startled eyes. “You okay, baby?”
“I’m fine, Dad,” I lied.
He covered my hand with his. “You’re not worried, are you, Vic? I mean, this was an accident.” He lowered his voice and looked around, probably to make sure Nonna wasn’t within earshot. “It’s not like what happened in May.”
I felt a rush of affection as I looked into his still-handsome face. He had the same hazel eyes as mine and Danny’s, but he didn’t have our healthy skepticism. His trusting nature and unfailing optimism, while endearing, had led him to bet long odds—at the track, in the casino, and in life. “Let’s hope not, Dad,” I said.
“You just listen to your old man.” He winked at me, pushed his straw fedora to the back of his head, and turned his attention back to the paper. But the only thing I could concentrate on was the fact that I’d been there. That I’d taken part in a significant conversation with the Natales and the deceased. That I’d overheard an argument and listened to a whole lot of gossip, all of which might have some bearing on this case. The county prosecutor, Regina Sutton, would be taking statements from anybody who came into contact with Merriman. Well, Vic, you escaped Sutton before, but not this time. No, this time I would have to face the tiger in her den and tell the truth of what I’d seen and heard—that Merriman had threatened Dr. Chickie with a court action, giving him a whopping motive for murder.
I stood up from the table. “I’m gonna get started on the setups, Dad.”
