by Rosie Genova
But what met my eye when I walked out into the dining room was an altogether pleasant sight: Behind the bar was Cal on a stepladder, sandpaper in hand, his lean but well-muscled form in a pose that emphasized a number of his masculine gifts. I tilted my head for a better look.
“Mornin’, Victoria,” he said without turning around.
“How’d you know I was here?”
“Got radar where you’re concerned, cher.” He used the New Orleans endearment that from just about anybody else would have been offensive.
“You and my mother.” I pointed. “Hey, have you actually cracked a smile there, Mr. Lockhart?”
He turned, leaning back against the ladder with his arms crossed. His sun-streaked brown hair had grown a little shaggy again, and he was back to wearing his Saints cap, backward, as always. The better to see those sleepy green eyes.
“I supposed you could call it a smile,” he said, exaggerating his drawl so that “smile” became “smahl.” He patted his flat tummy. “Might just be a touch of indigestion, though. What y’all call ah-gi-tuh.“
“Funny.” I stepped closer to the bar. “But I would think with a half-Italian mama, your pronunciation would be a bit better.”
“You would, wouldn’t ya?”
I held out my hand. “So, are we friends again, Cal?”
He came down from the ladder and grasped my hand in his broad palm. “We were never not friends. You just got my Southern temper up, is all.”
“I know.” I smiled, unaccountably relieved to be on good terms with him again. “You can let go of my hand now.”
But before doing so, he raised it to his lips and dropped a warm kiss on my knuckles, leaving me with a case of the tingles. He winked and climbed back up the ladder. “No rest for the wicked,” he said, and went back to his sanding.
Wicked is right, I thought, judging by the various sensations produced by that little kiss on my hand. What might a real kiss feel like? I was still in a dreamlike state as I set up the coffee station, wiping down the espresso machine with loving strokes.
“Girl, what are you smiling about?” Lori Jamison, our head waitress and my oldest friend stood with her hands on her hips, a knowing look on her face.
“Oh, hey, Lori. I’m not smiling about anything.” I emptied an espresso packet into the basket of the machine.
“Right.” She tucked a clean pad into the pocket of her apron. “Could it be that what you’re not smiling about is back from vacation? And looking mighty fine out there in his tight T-shirt?”
“Lori Jamison, you rascal, you. A married lady like yourself.”
“A married lady who still has eyes in her head. And speaking of fine eyes, where’s Chef Tim this morning?”
“Probably in the kitchen.” At the thought of Tim, my floaty feeling turned distinctly earthbound. I wondered if he’d called Lacey yet. If I knew Tim, they probably had a date already.
“Oh, Vic, by the way,” Lori said. “I heard what happened out at the Belmont Club.” She shook her head. “That poor old lady.”
“She wasn’t so poor. And to tell you the truth, she wasn’t so nice, either.”
Lori’s eyes grew round in her freckled face. “You don’t think—”
I held up my hand. “I don’t know. According to the papers, she died from a fall.”
“And you were there.” She looked around the empty dining room. “Like last time,” she whispered.
“This is not like last time,” I whispered back, even though we were alone and Cal was too far away to hear us.
“You’re a regular Jessica Fletcher. Murder follows you wherever you go.”
“Cut it out, Lori,” I said. But was this death another murder? Maybe it was suicide. I shook my head. There was nothing about Elizabeth Merriman that suggested she was despondent. She struck me as a tough old bird, an Iron Lady who would hold on to life with both hands. Unless . . . could something have driven her to it? Or more likely, someone.
I was so lost in thought that I didn’t hear the front doors opening. Nor did I see Lori trying to send semaphore signals with her eyebrows. But I did hear a rich contralto behind me, one that froze me into position like a Roman marble statue.
“Ms. Rienzi—now, isn’t this lucky? I take a chance on coming here to speak with you, and, lo and behold, here you are.”
I turned to face County Prosecutor Regina Sutton, decked out in designer sunglasses and a canary yellow suit that flattered the warm brown of her skin and her ample curves. She was surely not the only woman to hold such a position in our state, but she had to be the most fabulous, from her cropped blond Afro to her metallic copper manicure and snakeskin pumps.
I held out my hand, hoping it wasn’t shaking too much. “Ms. Sutton. Nice to see you again.”
“Somehow I doubt that.” She took off her sunglasses, revealing her unusual amber eyes. “But I’m certain you know why I’m here.”
I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry, and Lori handed me a glass of water. “Be in the kitchen if you need me,” she said out of the side of her mouth.
With a quick nod to Regina Sutton, she disappeared down the hallway. I took a gulp of water and nodded. “It’s about what happened at the Belmont Club. Are you here to take my statement?”
She smiled almost sympathetically. “I don’t conduct county business in Italian restaurants. Unlike some of my colleagues,” she said dryly, and I smiled in spite of myself. So she’s not completely humorless, I thought. That’s gotta be a good sign. “I’m just here to let you know you’ll be coming in.”
“You came all the way over here just to tell me that?”
Her smile tightened. “Face-to-face is so much more effective—don’t you think? I mean, one might ignore a phone message or text, or even pretend she hadn’t received it. This way, I see you, you see me, and you see that: I. Mean. Business.” She held out her card. “Your appointment is on the back. My office is in Ocean Township. Don’t be late, Ms. Rienzi,” she said, and sashayed out the door.
Chapter Seven
I stared down at the card with its raised gold seal and Regina “I Mean Business” Sutton’s name in black letters. On the back was my appointment. Well, it wasn’t a surprise; I knew I’d be called in to give a statement. But so would a number of other people, and I had more than a week before I had to show up. More than a week to solve it, Vic? I asked myself. Then I sat down at a nearby table to think.
The last time I’d seen Elizabeth was in the kitchen around nine, when I’d overheard the argument between her and Kate Bridges. The wedding reception had been scheduled to end at eleven. If Merriman had gone over that seawall before eleven o’clock, wouldn’t someone have noticed? And if her death was not an accident, would a murderer have taken such a chance with the club filled with guests? No, I was betting—in the fine Frank Rienzi tradition—that Elizabeth Merriman died sometime after that reception had ended. But that still left a number of suspects and possible witnesses who would have been at the club. At least I can’t be accused of murdering her, I thought.
Who still would have been in that building after the wedding reception? The whole clean-up staff and probably anyone left in the bar. But that didn’t preclude any of the wedding guests, who might have waited and then gone back to find her, including Dr. Chickie. It was likely that Merriman had been lured to her death—otherwise, how did she get out on that platform? And that suggested someone she knew. If Sally’s gossip was accurate, it seemed there was at least one person with whom she’d willingly walk to the beach after eleven at night, and that was Jack Toscano.
“Victoria, you’ve got nothing to do that you sit and daydream?” Nonna’s voice sliced through my reverie.
I jumped to my feet. “Just taking a quick break, Nonna.”
She frowned. “A break? Your day just started. Are the vegetables prepped?” Without waiting for an answer, she pointed to the kitchen.
I was about to head back when my parents came through the door. “No, Frank,” my mot
her was saying. “I will not have her mixed up in this again.”
My dad appealed to me. “Honey, your mother says I shouldn’t ask you to help Chickie. I mean, you were so smart about it last time, figuring how the guy died and all.”
Right, Dad. I messed with a police investigation, got Danny in trouble on the job, put Sofia in danger, and nearly got myself killed. Oh, and made a permanent enemy of Prosecutor Sutton. I was brilliant, all right. “Daddy, I—” I began, but my mom cut in front of me.
“Absolutely not, Victoria,” she said. “I will have no argument on this.”
Then Nonna had her say, uttering words she’d probably not spoken in forty years. “Your mother is right. This is not your business.”
“But, Mama,” my dad said, “this doesn’t look good for Chickie. And if anybody can figure this out, Vic can, and—”
My mother stamped her high-heeled foot, her curls bouncing. “I will not have her involved, Frank!”
“Basta!” I shouted. “Enough, okay?” I held up Sutton’s card. “I am involved. Whether we like it or not.”
Mom took the card from my fingers, turning it over in her hand. “You have an appointment with the prosecutor’s office?”
“Well, it’s not for a manicure, Mom.”
“But why you? There had to be dozens of people in that club.”
“More. And Sutton’s office might have to talk to all of them.” But I didn’t add that I had crucial information with a direct bearing on the case. Did Sutton already know about the conversation I’d heard involving the Natales and Elizabeth Merriman?
“Honey, I’m speaking to you,” my mother said, shaking my arm. “Do we need to call Johnny?”
Another of my dad’s cronies, Johnny Tremarco, was an attorney who specialized in the defense of some colorful characters around town. “Mom, I’m not a suspect. I don’t need a lawyer. Listen, all of you. I will go to her office at the appointed time. I will answer her questions honestly and I will sign the statement. And, hopefully, that will be the end of it.” If I can stop thinking about things like cause and time of death, motive, opportunity, and alibis.
“It had better be the end of it, Victoria.” The edge in Nonna’s voice was harsher than usual. “You are not to go digging around and asking questions, you understand?”
“Last time you insisted I go around asking questions.”
“This is different. That woman’s death has nothing to do with us.” Her beady eyes swept over us. “Now don’t we all have work to do?”
Shoving the card in my pants pocket, I hurried down the hallway to the kitchen. And as much as I wanted to concentrate on scraping carrots and rinsing lettuce, I couldn’t stop thinking about my grandmother’s words. Today she had referred to her as “that woman,” but yesterday she’d called her Elisabetta. Granted, my grandmother had a propensity for Italian-izing names; Cal was “Calvino,” for example. But there was a familiarity about how she used Elizabeth Merriman’s name. And she didn’t want me asking any questions—that was for darn sure. But why?
• • •
When my shift was over at the restaurant, I called my sister-in-law, Sofia, to meet for dinner. “Sure,” she said, “anywhere but at the Casa Lido. I don’t want to run into your mother.”
As my mom tended to blame Sofia for the problems between her and Danny, things had been a bit strained between Sofia and her mother-in-law. It didn’t help that Nonna adored Sofia, and wanted nothing more than for her and Danny to get back together again. As Sofia had once remarked, “You need a freakin’ score card with that family of yours.”
We were meeting at the Shell Café, one of the few places in town that was BYO. I showed up early, a bottle of Cabernet in hand. When Sofia arrived, she made quite an entrance in her tropical-print maxi dress. The bright colors set off her dark skin and hair, and revealed her slender but curvy form. We chatted about work—Sofia owned a dance school—until our food came: a grilled salmon salad for Sofia and the roast chicken special for me.
“So, I can’t believe you haven’t burned up the phone lines calling me, SIL,” I said.
“Why?” Sofia pushed the salad around on her plate and ate a small bite of salmon.
I grinned across the table at her. “Because I know you’ve heard about Elizabeth Merriman, and I told you Tim and I were working that reception. I fully expected you to grill me.” I happily tucked into my roast chicken and mashed potatoes.
“I did see it in the paper. I guess my mind’s been on a bunch of other things.” She looked up from her food, and I thought her eyes seemed a little tired. “So fill me in.”
“Oh my gosh, where to begin?” I started with Kate Bridges, and the battle of the chefs in the kitchen, and then moved on to my conversation with the Natales and the fight between the Iron Lady and Chef Kate. I could see Sofia getting interested in spite of herself. During our “adventure” in May, she had nagged and prodded until I agreed to investigate. The two of us had quite a partnership, despite how it almost ended.
“So, we’re fairly sure she went over that seawall.” She put down her fork and took a sip of water. “You think she was pushed?”
“Maybe. Or she could have fallen. But I don’t think she jumped. She’s just not the suicidal type. Her nickname was the Iron Lady.” I pointed to her still-full wineglass. “Are you gonna drink that? Because I hate to see a good Cab go to waste.”
She pushed the glass my way. “It’s all yours.” Then she smiled faintly, a flicker of mischief in her eyes. “I can only imagine Princess Roberta Natale finding out somebody gets bumped off at her wedding reception.”
“I forgot that you know Roberta,” I said. “You graduated high school together, right?”
She nodded. “And I liked her better when she had a few pounds on her. But I do feel bad about what happened at her wedding.”
“But it could have been afterward, Sofe. Elizabeth was still alive at nine o’clock. For all we know, Roberta didn’t even find out until it hit the papers.”
“True.” She thought for a moment. “I guess the big thing is when she was killed.”
“Right. And I sure hope Dr. Chickie can account for his time that night.” I downed what was left in my own glass of wine and then moved on to Sofia’s. “Hey, did Dr. Chickie do your teeth, too?”
“Nope. I never needed braces.”
Looking at my sister-in-law’s delicate bone structure, straight nose, and perfect mouth, it seemed a silly question. “Of course you didn’t. And neither did Danny. The two of you will produce children with beautifully straight teeth and save a bundle on orthodontia.”
Sofia, staring down at her salad plate, didn’t respond.
“I’m sorry—should I not have mentioned Danny? Aren’t things better with you guys?”
“They are, I guess. He’s even coming around to the idea of me applying to the police academy.”
I reached across the table and squeezed her arm. “That’s great.”
“It is. I mean, we’ve come a long way.” She frowned. “It’s just that there are some issues of timing right now.”
I waited for her to go on, but she just picked at her salad. This was the quietest I’d ever seen my normally voluble sister-in-law. “Is everything okay, Sofe?” I asked.
“Yes. We’re still working some things out.” She grinned at me, and for a moment was her old self. “You know what that’s like, right, Vic? How are the Macho Twins these days?”
“Well, they’re both speaking to me. Cal’s flirting with me again.”
“Glad to hear it. And what about Tim?”
I sighed. “Tim swore me his eternal friendship. And is likely dating a redheaded wedding planner named Lacey.”
“Ah.” She shook her head. “Those gingers will get you every time,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Did you say her name is Lacey?”
“She’s actually very nice, despite her name and hair color. We met her at the reception.” I looked down at my unfinished meal, slowly losing my o
wn appetite. I shrugged. “Look, when I came back, I made it clear there was no hope for him and me. I guess he got the message.”
“But you still wear the necklace he had made for you.”
I touched the silver choker with its small pendant of green sea glass. “I like this necklace.”
Sofia’s dark eyes were serious. “What do you really want, Vic?”
“Well, I want to finish this novel I‘m writing and publish it under my own name. I want to learn to cook like Nonna. And I want to get some beach time this summer.” I shook my head. “But when it comes to my romantic life, I don’t have a clue.”
“Speaking of clues, Vic, where do we start?” The old enthusiasm was back in Sofia’s voice. Here we go again, I thought.
“Look, I’ll admit I’m curious about what happened to Elizabeth Merriman. And I’d like to help Dr. Chickie.” I lowered my voice. “According to Danny, an embezzlement charge is pending, which gives him a motive, but—”
“But what?” Sofia was leaning on her elbows, her eyes wide.
“Regina Sutton came to see me at the restaurant this morning, just to give me this.” I held out the card. “I have to go down there and give a statement.”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t do some research,” she said, waving her hand in dismissal.
“Doing research nearly got us killed.”
She grinned. “So we know better this time.” She pointed her fork at me. “And don’t tell me you haven’t been going over it in that mystery-writer brain of yours. You’re driving yourself crazy over how that woman ended up on the beach.”
“You’re right about that one.”
“Okay, so if she was pushed, who are the suspects?”
“Anybody’s guess, Sofe. But not one person I spoke to that night had a good thing to say about the Iron Lady. Any one of them might have ‘helped’ her off that platform.” I scooped up the rest of my mashed potatoes, as my appetite was returning. “But she was threatening Dr. Chickie and had a loud argument with Chef Kate. Plus, there’s a boyfriend.”
