by Rosie Genova
I headed down the narrow hallway toward the pantry and kitchen, and looked up to see my brother coming through the kitchen doors. He was in street clothes, but his look meant business. “I came in through the back,” he said quietly.
“I already know why you’re here, Danny.”
He peeked out into the dining room, where my dad was still studying the Press, then stepped back into the hallway where he wouldn’t be seen. “You heard the news, I take it?”
“We just saw the paper. But there’s something else.” I hesitated, knowing full well my brother’s reaction to my next words. “I was there last night.”
I was well acquainted with my brother’s “you are kidding me” face. It’s the same one I’d get when he landed on my Boardwalk hotels in Monopoly, or when I said I hated fishing, or when he caught me meddling in a murder investigation. “What the hell, Victoria!”
“Ouch. You never use my full name. Believe me; I’m not happy about it, either. But Tim and Nando and I were there to cater the soup service. And I was out in the ballroom for a few minutes and—”
“And what?”
“I, uh, heard Elizabeth Merriman sort of threaten Dr. Chickie. She mentioned something about a court action. And a bartender at the club told me that Merriman caught him cooking the books.”
He ran his hand down his face and sighed. “So that’s out there.” He glanced out toward the dining room. “What do Mom and Pop know?”
“Just what they read in the paper this morning. And they know I was there, but not what I heard. But Mom’s probably talking to Brenda right now, so she’ll probably get more of the story.”
He rested his hand on my shoulder. “You know you’re gonna have to give a statement, right?”
“Yes, Detective. I know the drill. Unfortunately, I think I’m what you guys call a material witness.” Danny’s face told me he was doing some cop calculations, adding up a dead body, a motive, and opportunity. “This doesn’t look good for Natale.”
“C’mon, Danny, this is Dr. Chickie we’re talking about. Do you really see him pushing an old lady to her death?”
“If that’s how she died, Vic. We don’t know that yet. It could be an accident. But you’d be surprised at what people do when they’re desperate.” He shook his head. “Look, they’ve got him on the embezzlement. He could even be looking at time.”
“Don’t they usually make some kind of deal? Like, if he pays the money back?”
He shrugged. “Maybe. But this is a lotta money we’re talking about.”
“How much?”
Danny crossed his arms. “You know I can’t tell you that. In fact—”
“You shouldn’t even be telling me this; I get it.” But I kept going, my words coming faster and faster. “Danny, the newspaper article isn’t clear on where the body was found. Unless she went out a window on the ocean side of the building, I don’t think it’s likely she’d end up on the beach. And those windows just aren’t big enough. If she’d gone off the tower, I think she would have hit the main roof first, and there’s no telling where she’d land.” I grimaced at the image of the old woman’s body going off the tower and bouncing off the roof. Even Elizabeth Merriman didn’t deserve an end like that. “And wouldn’t someone have seen her fall out of or off the building? But the seawall is surrounded by dunes and brush. It’s overgrown; it would be harder to see someone out there. But I wonder if a fall from that height would kill somebody, but then again, she was elderly and—”
He held up his hand. “I can’t comment on any of that,” he said firmly. “But I can tell you something that’s common knowledge: That seawall is eighteen feet high. That’s almost two stories, sis.”
“And a two-story fall is high enough to kill a nearly blind old woman.” My brother’s face was impassive, and I figured I’d learned as much as I was going to. I looked down the hallway. “Listen, we should let them know you’re here, or they’ll think we’re up to something.”
Danny shot me a grin. “We’re always up to something.”
“Hey, speaking of being up to something, how’s my beautiful sister-in-law?”
At the mention of Sofia, Danny’s tough-cop expression softened. “Sassy as ever.” But he smiled as he said it.
“Look, you can tell me if this is too personal, but are you guys back together?”
“Mezzo mezzo,” he said, illustrating with his palm.
“How can you be halfway back together? Are you back home or not?”
Danny let out a sigh. “My wife and I are dating. If you can believe it.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Here’s the thing, sis. For a while there, things got a little . . . intense. And Sofia thinks we should step it down a little—you know, take it slow.”
After our recent run-in with some dangerous types, Sofia landed squarely back in Danny’s arms, much to my grandmother’s delight and my mother’s chagrin. I needed to have a chat with my SIL (short for “sister-in-law”) stat.
“Listen, Dan, you should go say hello. Mom’s gonna be off the phone any minute and then you’ll be picked up on the Mommy Radar anyway.” I linked my arm through his and led him down the hall.
Danny pointed to my father, whose head was still bent over the paper, pencil in hand. “He’s doing the puzzles. He don’t even know I’m here.”
But the minute we entered the dining room, my dad leapt to his feet. “Hey, is that my wayward son?” He embraced Danny in a classic man hug, which involved a lot of backslapping but little actual touching.
“Did I hear Daniel?” My mother came in from the street and clicked her way across the dining-room floor. Like I said, radar. “Hi, darling,” she said breathlessly. “I’m so glad you’re here. I just got off the phone with Brenda.” She gripped Danny’s arm. “Chickie’s in trouble; they’re afraid he’s going to be arrested.”
The question for murder? formed in my brain and threatened to travel straight to my mouth. Luckily, Mom kept going, shaking Danny’s arm for emphasis. “He’s accused of stealing money from the club. And suddenly the woman who’s accusing him is dead. Daniel, we have to help them!”
My brother gently removed Mom’s clutching hand from his arm. “I’m not a lawyer, Mom. I’m not sure what I can do.”
When my dad finally got a word in, he did it in classic Frank Rienzi fashion. “Guys, it’s a mistake,” he said, opening both palms as if to say there’s nothing here, see? “I’ve known Chickie my whole life. He’s a stand-up guy.”
Not according to Elizabeth Merriman, Dad. I glanced at my mother’s worried expression and my brother’s bland one. I think they both knew more than they were saying. “But, Frank,” my mom said, “You know that Chickie—”
“What, hon?”
“Never mind, sweetie.” She dropped a kiss on my dad’s cheek. “I need to see about that reservation book.” She looked at my brother. “Daniel, will you at least talk to the Natales?”
“If you think it will help, Mom.” Danny said. “Listen, I’m gonna head over to the marina while I can. I’m on duty tonight.” At the door, he looked back at me. “Keep me in the loop.”
“You got it.”
After he left, I made a beeline to my mother’s small office in the back of the restaurant. She was at her desk and appeared to be studying the reservation book. But I knew better.
“What were you about to say to Daddy?”
“My goodness, Victoria!” My mother pressed a hand to her ample chest. “Don’t sneak up on a person. Don’t you have work to do in the kitchen?”
“Yes. Now, what about the question I asked you?” I leaned against her desk, my arms crossed. I wasn’t going anywhere, and she knew it.
She sighed. “Close the door, please.” She pushed back from the desk and looked up at me. “What I started to say to your father was that Chickie has a gambling problem.” She gave a small shake of her auburn curls. “But I thought the better of it.”
Though I had a pretty good idea of the ans
wer, I asked anyway. “Why?”
But Mom’s radar was still set on high. “You know very well why, Victoria.”
I took her hand. “It’s because Daddy has a gambling problem, too.”
“But he doesn’t see it that way. He thinks that what he does, what Chickie does, what their whole Rat Pack does, for that matter, is just fun. A way to let off steam. A way that grown men can play.” Her eyes took on a pleading look. “And he’s been better, honey. You know he has.”
“His bets have been smaller, you mean. Yes, he’s been better. But it’s always there for us, that little, nagging worry. That one of these days he’ll backslide and bet the restaurant away in a poker game.”
“Oh, honey, don’t even say it.” She squeezed my hand and then slipped it from mine. “And we’re talking about Chickie now, not your father.”
There but for the grace of God, Mom. “So, you’re saying it’s possible that Dr. C. really did steal money from the club.” I didn’t add that my brother had already confirmed it.
“It’s certainly possible. They’ve spoiled Roberta terribly, and all she talked about was a wedding at the Belmont Club. He waited years to become a member and fought to be on their board.” My mother’s normally sweet face tightened. “Did you know that the Belmont Club only started letting in Italian-Americans about ten years ago?”
My eyes widened. “Stop it. It’s the twenty-first century!”
“Some practices are entrenched.” She shook her head. “I know because we tried to get in ourselves when you and Daniel were small.”
“Well, what did they do—just tell you ‘No, we don’t accept Italians’?”
She smiled. “Oh, nothing so obvious as that. No, they simply waited us out. Said the list was very long, et cetera.” She shrugged. “After a while it became less important, so we withdrew our application.”
I nodded. “As they knew you would. I guess by the time Dr. Chickie applied, things had changed a bit.”
“A bit, yes.”
“Well, I can see why someone would want a wedding there. That ballroom is stunning.” From there, the conversation turned to Tiffany windows, bagpipe players, and sparring chefs. I entertained my mother with as many details as I could dredge up, just to take that strained look from her face.
But I left out the most salient details of the night—Elizabeth’s threat to Dr. Chickie and her fight with Chef Kate. It was highly likely that I’d have to give a formal statement, and my instincts told me to keep my mouth shut about what I’d seen and heard until then.
“By the way, Mom,” I said. “It’s after ten. Shouldn’t Nonna be back from church by now?” St. Rose’s was around the corner, and Nonna usually walked to the restaurant after Mass. I crossed myself as I thought about my own spotty attendance at church, and hoped Nonna wouldn’t mention it.
“She should be here any minute, hon.”
And she was. As soon as I stepped out of my mother’s office, Nonna greeted me with a hail of questions. (It was better than a cross-examination about why I wasn’t in church, but still exhausting.) Did I count out the meatballs for each plate? Was the escarole cooked properly? Was the soup hot enough when it went out? And the cookies—were they decorated to her specifications? Most importantly, were they finished by the guests?
After my four yeses and an “I don’t know,” Nonna still looked at me with suspicion. “I sent you there to do a job, Victoria.”
“And I did it. Honestly, Nonna. Everything turned out fine.” Except for that dead body on the beach. I searched my grandmother’s face for any indication she’d heard that piece of news, and I wasn’t going to be the one to tell her. My dad got there first anyway.
“Ma, did you hear?” He walked up to us, waving the paper like a flag on the Fourth of July. “You know Elizabeth Merriman? The club president? She’s dead.”
My grandmother stood stock-still, her only movement a quick shift of her eyes behind her glasses. “Did you say she’s dead? Elisabetta?”
“Yes, Nonna,” I said. “They found her body on the beach early this morning.”
She pressed her palms together, perhaps in prayer. “Then may God rest her soul,” she said, and turned to go into the kitchen.
It wasn’t until later that evening, in the middle of taking orders, carrying trays, and clearing tables that it struck me: My grandmother had referred to Elizabeth Merriman as Elisabetta—a name that was as Italian as Nonna herself.
Chapter Six
Isabella trudged along the cobblestone street, her hand curled around the few coins she possessed. Enough to buy bread, at least, she thought, the word coming to her in English—not pane, but “bread” . . .
Okay, so Isabella’s learning English. I stared at the screen through gritty morning eyes. In the two months I’d been back in Jersey, I’d managed to get a start on my historical novel. And though I’d brought my main character Isabella to America, I wasn’t really sure what do with her next. I cranked open my bedroom window and breathed in the sweet sea air. The cottage I’d rented from Sofia was at the end of a beach block far from the noise of the boardwalk, a perfect place to work. The ocean glittered a silvery blue in the morning sun, and if I concentrated, I could hear the crash of the waves. While I loved my city view back in Manhattan, there was something about the ocean—its timelessness and predictability—that soothed me.
But the ocean wasn’t providing much inspiration this morning. And it didn’t help that I kept expecting County Prosecutor Sutton’s phone call. I’d already had one run-in with Regina Sutton because of my involvement in a murder investigation, and here I was likely to be in the middle of another one. But besides my statement, how many others would need to be taken? I tried to do some quick calculations: two hundred wedding guests, plus the staff and anyone who might have been in the bar, equaled days of questioning. But that also depended on the time of death. Once that was established, it wouldn’t be difficult to narrow that pool of witnesses to whoever was in or around that building when Elizabeth Merriman met her death.
I paced the small bedroom, turning the same question over in my mind: Did she fall or was she pushed? I strained to remember my first sight of the old hotel and its proximity to that seawall. I settled back at my desk, minimized my document, and with apologies to Isabella, accessed the Web site for the Belmont Beach Country Club.
The building had been a seaside hotel, the Windswept, from the late nineteenth century until about 1950, when it was sold and converted to the Belmont Beach Country Club, keeping its patch of private beach for club members. But that beach was steep and narrow, protected by a seawall built to buttress the dunes; the only way to get down there was via a creaky stairway. A historic photo of the club showed a wooden pathway with railings that led from the side of the building to the wooden platform and the steps down to the beach. Had Elizabeth Merriman traveled that walkway on Saturday night, ending up at the platform two stories above the beach? Now, if this were in my book, I thought, my detective, Bernardo Vitali, would find Elizabeth’s cane or that emerald ring up there as a convenient piece of evidence. But as I’ve learned the hard way, life doesn’t unfold like a neatly plotted book.
Well, I would only learn so much staring at a screen. The best thing to do would be to get over there and take a look at the property again, and it was at this moment that the voice of my conscience interrupted me, sounding a whole lot like my brother Danny. You’re not going anywhere, it said, except to Sutton’s office to make a statement. Stay out of this.
I wanted to stay out of it, I really did. But the question of how she ended up on that beach wouldn’t let me go. I looked back at the picture of the old Windswept, as though it held the answer. Did she fall? Was she pushed? And a third possibility slowly dawned: Had Elizabeth Merriman jumped to her death?
• • •
Come summer, the Casa Lido is open seven days a week, and I was scheduled for the lunch shift, so later that morning I hopped on the old Schwinn bike that came with my cottage
rental and cycled through the busy town. Though weekdays were a bit quieter, Oceanside Park was still packed with vacationers on a Monday morning.
I went around to the back of the restaurant, where Nonna’s garden was in full bloom with flowers, herbs, and tomatoes. Because of my experience in May—finding a dead body among the tomatoes—being in the garden still gave me a bit of a creeping chill, even on a hot summer morning. I took a quick look and went in through the back door that led straight into the kitchen, where Nando was already getting started on prep.
“Hola, Nando. The sauces smell great.”
“Thank you, Miss Victor. Today’s especial is beef ragu.” Nando gave the sauce a stir and adjusted the heat.
I inhaled the scent of simmering meat and tomatoes; behind that was a hint of basil. “Oh my God,” I said, “I could eat that right out of the pot.”
Nando gave me a toothy grin. “You do that and your abuela will—” He stopped and drew his palm across his neck in a cutting motion.
“Don’t I know it.” I tied on my apron, rolled up my sleeves, and started scrubbing my hands. “Is she coming in for the lunch shift?”
He shook his head, his long braid swinging with the motion. “Probably for dinner only. Also, your papa call to say he and your mama will be coming later.”
“And Chef Massimo is off today,” I said, “and Tim should be on his way soon.”
“But Calvin is here,” Nando said, furiously chopping herbs.
“So Cal’s back?” I tried to keep my tone neutral, even while my stomach did a flip-flop. The scruffily attractive Calvin Lockhart, originally from New Orleans, was restoring our carved-wood bar. We’d struck up a flirtation back in May, and things were going nicely until I sort of implied he was a murderer, causing a bit of chill to form between us. About ten days ago, he’d taken off on an apparent vacation. Considering he worked only a few hours a week on the bar, I couldn’t understand why he suddenly needed a break. But there were lots of things about this Southern charmer I didn’t understand—there was definitely more to him than met the eye.
