by Rosie Genova
I let out a breath; I was sure he was here to ask me to lie to the county prosecutor. “I’m glad you understand that. Roberta came to see me with Dennis last night. I think she’s a little upset with me.”
Chickie waved his hand. “She’s always upset. She had a perfectly nice wedding. Nothing happened till afterward.”
Well, don’t stop now, Dr. C. He folded his hands and looked straight into my eyes. “She was alive when we left the reception. And I had nothing to do with that woman’s death. But that is all I can say at this time.”
“He’s working with Johnny Tremarco,” my dad said in a confiding voice.
I noticed he didn’t say a word about embezzlement, but Tremarco had probably counseled silence on that topic. “Dr. C., you have a lawyer. Why are you coming to me?”
The orthodontist leaned closer. “Everybody knows how you figured things out last time.”
“This is not like last time.” Seriously, did I have to get a T-shirt made?
But he just kept going. “You’re a smart girl. If you can find out who did this, maybe we can uh, minimize some of the damage.”
“Honey,” my dad said, “please say you’ll help.”
“Daddy, Mom will kill both of us. If Nonna doesn’t get to us first.” Who was I kidding? In my pocket was a list I’d started. Sofia was already at her computer. I couldn’t stay out of this case and I knew it. I just didn’t want my family to know it.
My dad gave me the kind of nod that said Frankie had a sure bet. “You leave them to me.”
Right. I’d seen how my father had handled the women in his life. I looked from his confident face to Dr. Chickie’s desperate one. “Okay, both of you listen to me. I will look into some things, talk to a few people. But I can’t do anything that could get me in hot water with Sutton. You understand that; right, Dr. C.?”
He nodded, and patted my hand. “I understand, Victoria. I know there are some things I have to face. I’m willing to accept the consequences for the things I’ve done. But not for the things I haven’t.”
I watched my dad walk him out, his arm around Dr. Chickie’s shoulder. What to make of the little orthodontist? A gambler? No doubt. An embezzler? Probably. But a murderer? I didn’t think so.
Chapter Nine
I shouldn’t be doing this, I thought as I turned the key in the elderly blue Honda I’d bought when I’d moved back here. Sutton might find out. Danny might find out. Or, worse, Nonna might find out. But I kept seeing Dr. Chickie’s haunted eyes, and I couldn’t tamp down the sparks of my own curiosity. As I traveled down Ocean Avenue toward Belmont Beach, I pondered how best to get into that club to find out what I needed. It was after four, so the bar would likely be open. I had to hope that Mustang Sally was on duty and as talkative as ever.
When I reached the club, I parked at the far end of the lot in one of the two guest spots that were open. The parking lot was on the beach side, so I had a clear approach to the walkway. But so had the Belmont police, as bright yellow caution tape laced the railing along the walkway like a grim bridal decoration. I looked around me, and the grounds seemed quiet. Behind the building was a small picnic area where one or two members were having drinks. Otherwise, there appeared to be few people—and no police cars—around.
From where I stood I could see that the walkway to the beach was lined with a mix of natural vegetation and flowers that grow in sandy soil. The path was a good distance from the club, and the beach grass was high enough to obscure anyone walking there, especially at night. I crept along the side of the path, my heart thrumming in my chest. Sneaking around in places I shouldn’t be was the part of detecting that I hated (and Sofia thrived on). In the distance was the ocean; in front of me the platform and a steep drop to the beach below. I kept my eyes on the horizon as I approached the platform, trying with little success to look as though I belonged on a crime scene. The railing around the platform would have been waist high for my sixty-five inches; Merriman was taller. But there was no gate across the stairway and the steps looked narrow. She probably fell forward, straight over the stairway. I dropped to my knees next to the left side of the platform and flattened myself against the sandy ground. I scooched as close as I could, trying to ignore the caution tape that told me in bold black letters and exclamation points (POLICE LINE—DO NOT CROSS!) that what I was doing was highly irregular and probably illegal.
I reached out and ran my hand across the platform, feeling grit, sand, and splinters, one of which embedded itself into my palm. Saying a forbidden word under my breath and wondering why I was trying to save Dr. C.’s felonious behind, I rested my chin on the edge of the platform and squinted in the late-day sun. At the edge of my periphery, something glinted in the crevice between two of the wooden boards. I stretched my fingertips as far as I could, and using my nails in a way that would appall my mother, dug the tiny object from the crack. It rolled and skittered across the platform; I slapped my hand over it, wincing as the splinter dug deeper into my palm. Pinching it between my thumb and forefinger, I brought it to my face and blinked. Prickles rose up and down my arms when I saw what it was: a tiny pink bugle bead, exactly like the ones on the dress Elizabeth Merriman was wearing on Saturday night.
Still holding the bead between my fingers, I slid sideways and creaked to a standing position. I slipped the bead into the zippered section of my wallet, brushed the sand from my jeans and, heart pounding, made a dash back to the parking lot. Taking slow breaths, I walked the long way around from the lot toward the circular drive at the front of the building, shaking my sore palm. I would have to deal with the splinter later.
I walked up the stone steps and entered through the front doors of the club, hoping there wouldn’t be anyone checking for membership cards. But I was lucky, and passed through the foyer alone, stopping to peer into the ballroom, where a couple of male staffers were setting up tables. Had Dr. Chickie risked everything—his reputation, his freedom, his practice—just so Princess Roberta could have a wedding reception in this room? Even those glorious windows and glittering chandeliers weren’t worth that. The things we do for love, I thought, and headed down the hallway for the bar.
I blinked in the bar’s dim light, hoping for a glimpse of Sally’s bright hair. I jumped when her head popped up.
“Well, look who’s here!” Sally came out from behind the bar to greet me. This was better than I could have hoped for—who knew she’d be this happy to see me? She shook her finger at me and grinned. “I know who you are, lady. You’re not a caterer. You’re that mystery writer.”
“Guilty,” I said, raising my right hand and dropping it quickly in case she tried to shake it. “You met me as Victoria, but I write as Vick Reed.” Before I could come up with a reason for being there, Sally supplied one herself.
“And I know why you’re here. It’s to do research, isn’t it? Because of what happened to the Iron Lady?” Her eyes were bright with excitement, and who was I to disappoint her?
I put my finger to my lips. “Shh. Can we keep it on the down low, please, Sally?”
“Oh, you bet. C’mon, sit down.” She stepped behind the bar. “Can I get you something?”
“Just an iced tea, thanks.”
She poured the tea, dropped in a lemon slice, and slid it across the bar. “So, this is for a new book, right?”
“I guess you could say that,” I said. I leaned closer and lowered my voice. “I don’t suppose you have any idea who might have still been here after that wedding reception ended?”
Relishing her role as informant, Sally looked around the empty bar to make sure there were no prying eyes or ears and then nodded. “There’s the clean-up staff.”
I took out a pad and pen. “How many?”
She lifted a skinny shoulder. “Not sure. Maybe a dozen. But I don’t see any of them killing Merriman. Why would they?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it? What about wedding guests?” I asked, quickly scrawling some notes—not easy with my stinging ha
nd.
She shook her head. “They clear out quick after an event, especially a wedding.”
“What about the families of the bride and groom?”
“Not exactly sure on that one. I do know that Dr. Natale was still here, though.”
I stopped writing and looked up from my pad. “What time did you see him?”
“Maybe quarter to twelve. I know because we closed the bar early that night.”
So Dr. Chickie was on the premises, despite what he himself had said about leaving at eleven thirty. Did Dr. C. double back that night? There was also Dennis Doyle’s assertion that they’d left fifteen minutes previous, which neatly lined up with Dr. C.’s story. Was Dennis lying to protect his new in-laws? I made a note to check into Doyle’s background, hoping I could read it later. That splinter was doing a job on my writing hand. “Who else, Sally?” I asked.
“Jack Toscano was also here, and so was the dude with the crazy hair. They were in the bar till I closed at eleven thirty.”
Now, that was interesting. Toscano was still around, as was the man with the Einstein hairdo. “Hey, Sally,” I asked, “I don’t suppose you have the name for the white-haired guy?”
She shook her head. “Nope. I can try to find out for you if you want.”
“Don’t worry about it; it doesn’t matter.” Of course it did matter, but I was supposed to be researching a mystery, not conducting my personal investigation. “How about the kitchen staff? Were Chef Etienne or any of his guys still here?”
“Don’t think so, but I wouldn’t swear to it. I do know this, though: Crazy Chef Kate went marching past this bar around eleven thirty, cursing up a storm. We all heard her. And then she left, right out through the front doors.”
“How do you know?”
She laughed. “’Cuz I followed her ass. I was gonna let her know to keep her voice down, but she was too fast for me and got out before I could stop her.”
“That doesn’t mean she couldn’t have come back,” I said, more to myself than Sally.
“But think about it, Victoria—she’s pretty darn recognizable. With that bright red scarf and all that makeup. If she came back, she took a heck of a risk.”
“Well, somebody took a risk.” Was it Kate Bridges? That night in the kitchen she’d said of Merriman that somebody should “put her lights out.” Then she made a noisy exit a half hour before Merriman was killed. If she’d killed her, why be so obvious? Unless it was all an elaborate ploy. But Kate struck me more as the hot-tempered type who’d act impulsively rather than someone who would coldly calculate a murder. I took a deep slug of my tea and wrapped my throbbing hand around the cold glass. Then I took my questions in a new direction. “Sally, how well do you know this building?”
“Pretty well. I’ve tended bar here for almost ten years.”
“Okay, so what’s the closest door to get to the walkway to the beach?”
She leaned close enough for me to see her glittery green eye shadow. “You think she went over that seawall, don’t you? Hell, she must have—the cops have it roped off. So, you gonna kill off your next victim that way?”
I thought about the bead sitting deep within the confines of my wallet. A piece of evidence that the police and Sutton’s team had missed, and one I certainly should not have in my possession. I swallowed nervously, prompting Sally to refill my tea. “Let’s just say that’s a possibility, okay?”
She shot me a wink. “I get it. So, back to your question. There’s a side door off the kitchen—that one’s the closest. But not one that the members use. If you go back out here to the main hallway and continue to your right, you’ll see two doors at the end of the hall—the one on the left leads outside. The other one takes you up the stairs.”
I grinned at her. “To the mysterious tower?” I asked in my best horror-movie voice.
She waved her hand. “It’s all boarded up. But you know what? In your book, I think your character should get pushed off the tower instead. Much more interesting.”
If and when I get back to my mysteries, I might do just that, I thought. In the meantime, I have to focus on real life. That’s when another thought occurred to me—one so obvious, I should have lost my private-eye license, if only I’d had one. I leaned forward on the bar. “Sally, Merriman didn’t drive, did she? I would think with eyes that bad—”
“Nah,” Sally interrupted. “Toscano drove her everywhere. Or she took cabs. She was big on taking cabs.”
I wrote Toscano drive/cabs on my pad, then a colon followed by these words: How was she planning to get home that night?
Sally turned my pad around to face her, tapped my notes with her fingernail, and pushed the pad back. “Now, that’s the sixty-four-dollar question, ain’t it?” she said.
• • •
I followed Sally’s directions and reached the two doors, just as she’d described. Holding the door open in case it locked behind me, I noted that it was about twenty-five yards to the beach path, and the grass was overgrown. Elizabeth Merriman would have needed a strong arm to help her through the grass and onto the wooden walkway. It had to be somebody she trusted, I told myself. Like Toscano. Glancing upward, I saw a light fixture—perhaps a sensor light? A sensor light would have illuminated this whole area, allowing anyone walking past or even out on the road a pretty good view of a woman pitching over that stairway. I made a note to find out whether members used the beach at night. I stepped back inside, pulling the door closed as quietly as I could. When I turned to leave, my hand still on the doorknob, I nearly collided with a tall redhead.
“Victoria?” Lacey Harrison stepped back to get a look at me. At least today I wasn’t wearing a hairnet, but my jeans, T-shirt, and sandals were no match for her linen trousers and crisp white blouse.
“Oh, hi, Lacey,” I said, as though skulking around hallways in a place I didn’t belong was a totally natural thing to do.
“What are you doing here?” A frown creased her pretty brow—confusion? Or suspicion?
From my last little adventure, I’d learned that when lying, it is always best to stay as close to the truth as possible. “Okay, I know this sounds really morbid, but I was curious about the beach path. Too many years of writing mysteries, I guess.” Lame, Vic. Truly lame. I snatched my hand back from the doorknob. But if I expected disapproval from Lacey, I was mistaken.
“The police think Mrs. Merriman fell from the seawall, don’t they?” she whispered.
“I guess. I mean, I don’t know,” I said in a normal tone that echoed loudly down the hall.
“But it’s cordoned off,” Lacey said, glancing toward the door. “It must be significant.” She looked back at me. “I got a phone call from the county prosecutor’s office. I have to make a statement,” she said nervously.
“Me too. Just tell the truth and don’t worry about it too much.” I paused, but Lacey clearly wasn’t going anywhere. “Well,” I said, “I should leave.” I pointed back at the door. “And would you mind not saying anything about this?”
“Sure. But you know the club is private. It could be awkward if the manager saw you.”
“I’m on my way. And if I run into anybody, I’ll just say I got lost. Bye, Lacey.”
“Bye, Victoria,” she called out. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around.”
God, I hope not, I thought. It was bad enough to imagine Tim and Lacey together; I sure didn’t want to watch the romance play out in front of me. But as I kept reminding Tim, he and I were over a long time ago.
Giving myself a firm reminder not to get distracted—and not to get caught here—I hesitated. The side door was closer to the parking lot, but the front door was for public use, probably a better choice if I got caught on the premises, so I scampered down that hallway and darted out the main doors. But I had only about three seconds to savor my clean getaway.
“May I help you?” Jack Toscano, hands on hips, stood at the bottom of the stone steps that led into the building.
“Oh,” I sa
id, “I was actually on my way out.”
“I see that.” He smiled in a forced way. “Were you interested in having an event here? Or adding your name to the membership list?”
Again, I tried to straddle that border between truth and lies. “No, thank you. My friend Sally tends bar here, and I was just stopping in to say hello.”
He tilted his head, his dark glasses disconcerting. “You look familiar.”
Was he a reader of mysteries? Or did he recognize me from Saturday night? Go for the truth, Vic. “Actually, I was here the other night to cater the soup course of the wedding.”
“Ah, that’s right. You were in the bar.” He reached out his hand. “I’m Jack Toscano, the club manager.”
Well, that was quick, Jack. Did you promote yourself already? Without thinking, I offered him my right hand, which he gripped enthusiastically. “Ow,” I gasped. “Sorry. I’m Victoria Rienzi,” I said, and attempted to pull my hand from his.
Instead he turned up my palm and winced. “No, I’m sorry. That’s quite a nasty splinter you’ve got there, isn’t it? Have you cleaned it?”
“I’m, um, heading home to do that, in fact.”
He nodded. “Good.” He dropped my hand, but his face loomed close to mine. My heart, which had begun pounding again when I ran into Lacey, started in double-time as I took in his dark glasses and tight expression. He pointed at my head and I flinched. “Sorry,” he said again, but didn’t smile. “But I was just about to tell you that you have some dried grass in your hair.”
“Oh.” I shook my head and watched a couple of blades flutter to my feet. Good job there, Vic, I thought, and realized something else: This is a guy who notices things.
Toscano suddenly smiled, which struck me as more frightening than his scary face. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Rienzi,” he said. “And I’m sorry if I seemed suspicious just now. We’ve been fending off reporters.”
